


Hit Single: The Final Season

by Julibean19



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Celebrities, Dancing and Singing, Drama & Romance, Happy Ending, Humor, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Musician Peter, Musician Stiles, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Addiction, Past Infidelity, Playlist, Rock and Roll, Sexual Tension, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Song Lyrics, past petopher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-19 20:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14880560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julibean19/pseuds/Julibean19
Summary: “I used my 3 Bars button to steal you, Stiles.”Now Peter fucking Hale is right in front of Stiles on stage and pulling him into a hug. They’re touching. Stiles’ sweaty face is being tucked into Peter fucking Hale’s bare throat and his gay little heart can’t take it. When Peter pulls away, Stiles can feel his mouth opening and closing like a fish but he just can’t make it stop.“Hello, darling,” Peter purrs barely an inch from Stiles’ skin. “You’re something really special, and I can’t wait to get to know you better.”Desperate to save his injured father from mounting debt, Stiles becomes a contestant on the reality singing competition, Hit Single.   There he must compete against a variety of characters to take home the cash prize... and maybe also his coach, legendary rock God, Peter Hale.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubyredhoodling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubyredhoodling/gifts).



> I was thrilled to have the chance to write for my amazing artist partner, [RubyRedHoodling.](http://rubyredhoodling.tumblr.com/) Thanks for letting me ramble to you about violins and crop tops for weeks on end. It's been a pleasure collaborating with you!
> 
> You'll find a link to their artwork right over [here.](http://rubyredhoodling.tumblr.com/post/174916034571/14k-steter-reverse-bang-round-2-hit-single-by) Be sure to leave them some love!!! Like a lot of love. All possible love.
> 
> For the 14k Steter Reverse Bang, I apparently couldn't resist the sight of Stiles with a vintage microphone. I don't think anyone is surprised that I have these boys singing to each other yet again. Playlist available on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/julibean19/playlist/6DfCTBaH1JQIgqbdvOvyv9?si=3Zpb2KvDSeO-TQgy3vuCkQ) and [YouTube.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL8I6-ZZtm7d3ZlgXY7C7FfFuhpCKMjSGG) The YouTube one is more specific. Spotify doesn't have everything.
> 
> Huge kudos and much-needed hugs to [red_crate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/pseuds/red_crate) for being a great co-mod! We did it! Now we can finally relax a little bit and enjoy all the Steter everyone created!
> 
> Special thanks to [Green](https://archiveofourown.org/users/green) for the quick and dirty beta read. I needed that kick in the pants at the end. You're the true rock star of this production.

“Hello and welcome back to Season 8 of Hit Single! I’m your host, Allison Argent, and this is day 3 of our Pitch Dark auditions! I’m here with our next contestant, Stiles Stilinski. He—”

“CUT!” the director yells, shaking his head and frowning at the video feed. “I need more sparkle, Baby Argent! MORE SPARKLE! I want it like there’s a rainbow coming right out of your hoo-ha! Like you just discovered masturbation! Like the rent is due! Alright?”

“Is he always like this?” Stiles mutters, eyeing the director warily.

“Just smile and nod,” Allison assures him out of the corner of her mouth. “Of course, cupcake!” she calls back to the director. “More sparkle. Got it!”

“You really—” Scott asks from his seat next to Lydia. The couch is just out of shot but they’ll be swinging over there soon to interview Stiles’ friends for the pre-audition segment.

“—He likes to be called cupcake,” Allison says, eyes going bright like a cartoon as she turns to camera again. “Just go with it.”

“Okay…” Stiles drags out, plastering a smile on his face for the cameras and adjusting the sleeves of the too-tight henley Lydia had insisted he wear for his big break.

“Bilinski spot take two! Annnnnd... ACTION!”

“Hello and welcome back to Season 8 of Hit Single! I’m your host, Allison Argent, and this is day 3 of our Pitch Dark auditions! I’m here with our next contestant, Stiles Stilinski,” she says again. This time the lighting has changed and something about Allison’s hair seems to shine like it’s metallic. She flutters her eyelashes rapidly, her dimples more prominent than ever as she makes it through to the next line without getting shouted at.

“He’s from Beacon Hills, California where his father is in the hospital recovering from a devastating injury. Let’s take a look,” she says, smiling softly at Stiles as they roll the pre-recorded footage on the iPad in her hand.

It’s hard to watch, so Stiles looks away, focusing instead on Scott and the way he seems to blush whenever Allison flips her hair. He can still hear it, though, his own voice ringing out in the silent studio like a fly that won’t stop buzzing.

“My mother died when I was eight,” the voiceover says, and when Stiles flicks his eyes to the screen he sees himself walking through a field of wildflowers in the preserve. “It was horrible. Frontotemporal Dementia. My father… he’s all I have left. We’re protective of each other, fiercely protective. I’ve been watching his cholesterol and cooking his meals since I was old enough to reach the stove. He’s the County Sheriff and has always worked long hours, keeping everyone safe, always pushing to do what’s right, to make sure everyone gets home to their families at the end of the day.”

Stiles looks away again, this time toward Lydia who is already staring back at him. She’s is all business, makeup flawless as always, back straight and legs crossed, peering at him with tight lips. It’s nothing she hasn’t heard before. Lydia and Scott have been with him every step of the way, every late night in the hospital, every tearful phone call wondering if this was going to be the time that they couldn’t bring his dad back.

“Everything I am…” the voiceover continues, “everything good about me I learned from him and my mother before she passed. We were doing okay, supporting each other until he was shot in the line of duty a few months ago. It meant a coma and multiple surgeries, several resuscitations… never knowing if he was going to wake up or not…” his voice trails off as he cries on camera.

Scott is barely keeping it together, squeezing Lydia’s hand as Stiles’ father takes over on the video. Taking a deep breath, Stiles forces himself to look at the screen. His eyes are watering already and he knows it’s only a matter of time before the tears escape and roll down his cheeks.

It’s frustrating because he knows this is what they want. The director, Finstock—or should he say cupcake—needs the drama. The studio needs the audience to form an emotional attachment to Stiles, and as much as he hates to admit it, Stiles needs it too, for all the reasons his father is about to list.

“Stiles was a handful as a kid,” his dad says, voice still rough from his last intubation. The camera crew spent two hours at the hospital, slipping in between tests and bouts of rest to get a decent interview with his dad. Melissa had helped facilitate everything, insisting Stiles go home to sleep.

“He’s always struggled with ADHD, always been inquisitive. That and the constant disregard for authority… it all comes with being a cop’s kid. But when he sings…” his father says, looking away from the camera with a small smile on his worn and tired face, “he becomes this whole other person...”

Stiles is losing his fight with his emotions now, sniffling and wiping the wetness from his cheeks. It was a cheap move, not letting him see the interview with his father before now. Cheap, but effective. His eyes are glued to the screen as he bites down on his lower lip, inhaling sharply and holding his breath, unwilling to let anything that could be called a sob or a whimper pass his lips.

“He becomes the person his mother raised; fiery and alive… alight with passion but also tender and beautiful. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. I can’t even explain what he does with music, it just…” his father trails off, coughing. His face is red and he’s tired, too tired for this interview, too weak to keep up appearances for this long. “I’m not great with words. You’ll have to watch him and listen to him and then you’ll love him and his music the way I do, the way his mother did.”

“We’ve been crippled by hospital bills since my mother was diagnosed back when I was five,” Stiles hears his own voice say when they cut back to him in the video. “It’s a constant struggle. It’s why my dad works so much and so hard. There were some rough years there, when I lied and sneaked out, angry he hadn’t come home for dinner in a week. When I finally came out to him in high school, he was surprised, but he supported me.”

Stiles looks away from the screen again, swallowing down whatever emotion had overtaken him before. When he catches Lydia’s eye, there’s a smile there. It’s a proud one, and coupled with a fond look from Scott, it’s enough for Stiles to find his resolve once more.

“When I wanted to go to school to become a forensic scientist, he supported me, even though I had to drop out to work. He’s never done anything but support me and love me and I want to… no, I need to give him that support now. I need to make it here because if I don’t we might lose the house and with the house, we’d lose my mother’s memories and I just…” his voice trails off again as he cries on film. “We need this. I need this.”

“We’re here now with Stiles’ best friends, Scott and Lydia,” Allison says when the video ends. She gestures for Stiles to take a seat next to Scott on the couch for the remainder of the shot. “What can you two tell us about Stiles and his music?”

Before Scott even opens his mouth, he’s already throwing an arm around Stiles’ shoulder and releasing Lydia’s hand, pulling them both in toward his body. “Stiles is one of those people that doesn’t just play music,” Scott says, reaching up to ruffle Stiles’ hair, “the music kind of plays him. He’s never just one thing. It’s always something different, but it’s always original.”

“Would you say Stiles defies genres then?” Allison asks, turning toward Lydia for a response.

“Absolutely,” Lydia replies, a smug expression crossing her face. “You can’t put Stiles in a box, not his music, not his personality, not his intellect. He’s just… Stiles. There’s only ever been one Stiles, there will never be another.”

“Thanks, Lyds,” Stiles says, reaching out to pat her knee.

“CUT!” the director yells, stomping toward them. “CUT, CUT, CUT! I’m not having this shit again, Bilinski!”

“Oh no,” Allison sighs even as she plasters a false smile on her face. “What do you need, cupcake?”

“GREENBERG!” Finstock shouts. Then he inexplicably pulls a whistle out from under his shirt and blows into it for several excruciating seconds. “We said no weird love triangles this season! Or love parallelograms or love trapezoids or… whatever!” he growls around the whistle, pointing between Stiles, Scott, Lydia, and Allison.

“What?” Scott asks dumbly, releasing his hold on Lydia and Stiles before standing. He pushes himself to his full height, which isn’t much, but the breadth of his shoulders and the circumference of his biceps are enough to make the director’s eyes widen ever so slightly.

“Do you play football? You should probably play football, or maybe lacrosse,” Finstock says, whistle hanging from his lips. He leans in to wrap a hand around Scott’s arm and squeeze. “Very nice, very nice.”

“What the fuck is happening right now?” Stiles mutters to Lydia.

“Don’t worry about it,” Allison assures her with an unimpressed flick of the hair. “He’s been stressed ever since Erica Reyes and Peter Hale became coaches. If we’re too slow with the bleep button the studio gets fined. We’re already at 10 p.m. If Hit Single gets any raunchier we’re going to have to get picked up by a premium channel or streaming service or something.”

“Listen here, roid rage,” Finstock says, spitting the metal from his mouth. As soon as it’s free he begins waving his hands around and shouting again. “We’ve got enough sexual tension going on between Hale and Argent without bringing any of you horny little fuckers into the mix! You keep your genitals where I can see them, capiche?”

“Where you can—what?” Scott asks, backing away and looking down at his crotch.

“You’re dating Peter Hale now?” Lydia asks, turning toward Allison. “Do tell.”

“What? Ew,” Allison says, wrinkling her nose. “He was married to my dad for like ten years, I would never go there.”

“Why not?” Stiles pipes in, watching the scene unfold with amusement. “Everyone else has.”

“That’s why she wouldn’t,” Lydia says, nodding. “Sure, he’s gorgeous and ridiculously talented, but everyone knows he slept with every celebrity _and_ every groupie in the 80s, men and women... literally everyone. Who knows what he’s carrying.”

“Ugh, can we not?” Allison says, raising her voice to be heard over whatever Finstock is yelling about. “That man was my stepfather for most of my formative years. I mostly lived with my mom, but still,” she says, shuddering. “I try not to think about it.”

“For the last time,” Scott shouts, puffing out his chest again, “Lydia and I are not dating. Stiles and I are not dating. Stiles and Lydia are not dating. Stiles had a thing for Lydia before he realized he was gay, but there is nothing going on here. And we just met Allison an hour ago!”

“Like it takes an hour,” Finstock groans, massaging his temples. “You kids with your stamina… you could do it 20 times in an hour! There will be no fucking around this season! One more sex scandal and we’ll be shut down!”

“We’ve been sitting in plain sight the entire time! What could we have possibly done? What the hell is wrong with you?” Scott insists.

“So much, kid,” Finstock says, lunging forward and pulling Scott in for a tearful hug. “So much.”

“What happened last season?” Stiles asks, eyes flicking quickly between Scott, Finstock, and Allison. He scoots over to the middle cushion to better hear the gossip.

“Rumor is one of the contestants knocked up one of the other contestants in the confessional first night in the Single House,” Allison whispers. “And they didn’t realize the cameras were rolling. They ended up suing for the tape and the studio had to settle quietly. We’re not allowed to have a confessional anymore.”

“No way,” Lydia says with a gleeful squeal. “Drama!”

“It was Liam and Hayden, wasn’t it?” Stiles says, brown eyes roving Allison’s face for any sign of confirmation. “Those two were totally banging.”

“Who told you that?” Allison asks, eyes narrowing.

“No one,” Lydia says, rolling her eyes. “It was obvious. We binged the last 7 seasons as soon as Stiles got his audition. Had to learn the game.”

Looking around to be sure no one else is listening in Allison whispers, “Well, there are new surprise mechanics this year, so don’t get too comfortable. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you more. I signed an NDA.”

Finally, Scott is able to extricate himself from Finstock and straighten his clothes, taking a seat again.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, clearing his throat and sitting back on the couch, throwing his arm around Lydia and shooting for casual. “I’m looking forward to it.”

”Okay,” Finstock says, pacing around in a circle. “Okay, okay, okay. Here we go, one more time, Baby Argent.” He stomps back toward the camera, whistle bouncing on his chest as he settles his headphones back around his ears. “Like a willow tree! No! Like a dogwood. Yeah… like a dogwood,” he says, snapping his fingers and nodding at her.

“Do you know what that means?” Lydia asks, muttering out the side of her mouth.

“Not a damn clue,” Allison says through her smile.

“Annnnd, ACTION!” Finstock yells.

“So, Stiles,” Allison says, head tilting to the side conspiratorially. “If you got a Cue the Lights from all four coaches today, which one would you choose?”

Stiles pretends to ponder this for a moment, though he and Lydia have gone over every possible scenario a thousand times. When the time comes, he knows exactly what he’s going to do. “I think I’d like to work with Morrell,” he says, watching Lydia nod along with him out of the corner of his eye. “She’s got such a cool vibe in her music and a really diverse list of collaborators. I think she’d be a great producer for me somewhere down the line. We’d make a good fit.”

“Well,” Allison says, looking directly into camera two. “Let’s hope you get the chance to nab eight-time Grammy winner Morrell as your coach! And now,” she pauses to flash the audience a dimple-heavy smile. “It’s time for Stiles Stilinski to go Pitch Dark!”

“And CUT!” Finstock yells, allowing them all to relax. “Finally! It’s like herding cats with you, Baby Argent. Just be the tree I want the first time around and we won’t have to keep doing this!”

“Of course, cupcake,” Allison says, nodding solemnly. “I’m going to go work on that in my trailer while you guys set up Stiles’ audition.”

“Be back in five! It’s showtime, kittens!” Finstock yells, blowing his whistle once more before stomping off toward the studio door.

“You ready for this?” Scott asks, reaching out to massage Stiles’ shoulders.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Stiles says, taking a deep breath and letting it out through his nose. “It’s not like I’ve never played in front of a crowd before.”

“I don’t think the Beacon Hills Middle School talent show counts as a crowd,” Lydia points out, lips curving into a close-mouthed smile.

“Maybe not,” Stiles says, standing up from the couch and shaking his limbs out. “But it’s all Pitch Dark anyway. I’m just going to pretend I’m back home in the garage and it’ll be fine.”

“Just don’t freak out when someone Cues the Lights,” Lydia reminds him for the hundredth time. “Act unimpressed. Keep singing. You got this.”

“I got this,” Stiles agrees, giving Lydia and Scott quick hugs when he receives a hand signal from one of the assistant producers. Then he’s whisked out the door, handed a microphone and told to get his game face on in the mirror for a few minutes.

Someone touches up his makeup and then the camera operator is counting down and pointing at him. Stiles’ mind goes horrifyingly blank for a few moments but he’s able to pull it together and say, “I uh…”

The camera guy leans back for a second and rolls his eyes mouthing “Come on,” and a few expletives at Stiles until he recovers.

“This one is for my mom,” he says finally, remembering to play up the sad puppy dog routine he and Lydia worked the kinks out of last night. “With my dad in the hospital, I’ve been thinking about her more and more, wishing she were there with me, that she could sing to me like she used to. I just want to make her proud,” he finishes quietly, looking down at his hands as he struggles not to fidget with the obscenely expensive microphone.

The cameraman cuts the tape and then it’s an excruciating thirty-second countdown before he’s pointed toward the stage door and told to get his ass out there.


	2. Chapter 2

When they say Pitch Dark, they mean Pitch Dark. There’s a reflective piece of tape leading Stiles out from behind the open curtain and to the center of the stage where an X marks his spot, but that’s all he can see. Stiles knows the audience at home will see shots of the coaches’ reactions and those of his loved ones who are waiting in the wings, but apart from that, there’s just the sound of his voice.

It’s supposed to be part of the fun, keeping everything anonymous, the mystery of it all, but even though he told Lyds and Scott it would be just like jamming out in his dad’s garage, it’s nothing like that at all.

They didn’t rehearse this part. Stiles didn’t get a chance to explore and come to terms with what it would feel like to be swallowed by the silence that only a theatre full of people can make. In rehearsal, it was all hot lights and blaring feedback with the occasional direction from the stage manager. Now, when it really counts, Stiles is all alone, rooted to his reflective X with no idea when the band is going to come in.

Millions of people at home are about to hear him sing.

He thought he was prepared for it, that he would be able to tune it all out and just do what he does, but every time he takes a breath he’s hit with a vision of his father lying in a hospital bed, of his mother wasting away in that same hospital over a decade prior, of his mail carrier handing him a stack of overdue notices.

Stiles is out of options. He’s got one chance at this and he has to make it a good one. The only thing he can do now is hope that his unorthodox song choice will pay off.

An age goes by—Stiles is sure of it. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest. His breathing is probably being picked up by the microphones and echoing through the theatre, but he just can’t rein it in.

His eyes search the crowd, but there’s nothing to see. The producers have done an excellent job of obscuring all of the light. It’s so effective Stiles is certain it can’t be legal.

Even the coaches sit in darkness, their eyes covered by a blackout visor. There are small spots on each of them so the cameras and everyone at home can see their expressions, but Stiles’ view of that is perfectly, horrifically obscured. The coaches have to press their Cue the Lights buttons to choose him, then the producers will put a blindingly bright spot on Stiles, but the coaches won’t be allowed to remove their visors until the song is over.

For now, Stiles might as well be alone in a haunted mansion. Whispered voices, scattered coughs, and the shifting of fabric over thousands of bodies are the only evidence he has that anyone else is present at all.

Finally, the drummer counts out the beat and the keyboard comes in lightly, giving him his pitch and the shortest of intros. But that’s it.

Now it’s all him.

This was a horrible idea, Stiles admits internally in the few bars before his cue. He and Lydia chose a pop song by Demi Lovato for his audition. It was a strategic move, agonized over for days until they were sure they’d covered all their bases.

Shock them by doing a woman’s song in the original key? Check. Tug at the audience’s heartstrings by explaining how Stiles’ mother used to sing him to sleep during the pre-performance mirror interview? Check. Shoot right down the middle for genre to appeal to all of the coaches? Check. Throw little personalized tidbits into the arrangement that you know each coach loves so they’ll each push their buttons? Check. Sing the crap out of the dime-a-dozen fucking song so no one can deny that you have a right to be here…

Check?

It’s not done yet, but it will be.

Stiles closes his eyes and clutches his microphone, picturing the beat up egg carton soundproofing and ratty beanbags of his garage, pretending this is just another rehearsal with Lydia and Scott as his only audience. They’ve seen him do this song a hundred times until he had every little inflection down pat. They held up their phones so his dad could watch him practice on Skype from the hospital. They sat through the tinny, electronic, keyboard accompaniment recording time after time until their ears bled. They held his hand and loved him and pushed him to swallow his fear and just fucking do what he had to do to win that prize money.

He’s ready for this.

Finally, it’s time. Stiles opens his mouth and gives America a taste of his voice for the first time.

“I can’t sleep tonight  
Wide awake and so confused  
Everything’s in line  
But I am bruised”

He starts out light. There’s nothing worse than an artist blowing their load right in the first line. Sure, it’s good for shock value, but it does nothing for longevity. Stiles is trying to tell a story here. It needs to have a beginning, an orgasm-inducing climax, and a gentle denouement. Who cares if he’s never sung in front of a crowd besides little school talent shows as a kid?

He’s no amateur.

“I need a voice to echo  
I need a light to take me home  
I need a star to follow  
I don’t know”

It drives Stiles completely crazy that they had to rearrange the song in the interest of saving time. Swapping the lyrics around and cutting out entire sections to get to the “good parts” is fucking sacrilege and he hates every second of it. Just like abridged versions of audiobooks, radio edits and audition cuts are complete garbage. You don’t fuck with the classics. At least he’s singing a pop song right now and not the Beatles or the Stones or something sacred.

There is, however, one lyric change that he suggested himself; changing “baby” to “Mama.” Stiles didn’t even call his mother that when she was alive.

It’s a cheap shot, but at this point in his life, Stiles is not above taking it. He needs a spot on this damn show and he’s willing to do a little emotional blackmail to get it. If that means making a coach cry about their dead mother, that’s just tough Wookies. Stiles opens his eyes and stares out into the darkness, waiting for what he believes to be inevitable.

“I never see the forest for the trees  
I could really use your melody  
Mama I’m a little blind  
I think it’s time  
For you to find me”

And just as he planned, Peter Hale succumbs to Stiles’ fake sentiment, smacks his Cue the Lights button, and comes into view. There’s a crazy sound effect that’s enough to throw Stiles off his timing. Thankfully the in-ear monitor has the keyboard turned up loud enough that the applause is more of a joyful feeling than an audible distraction.

The spotlight that flicks on over his head is painful, but Stiles forces himself not to turn away or squeeze his eyes shut. This is his shot and he needs to do it right. He needs to do it exactly like he and Lydia planned or the whole thing falls apart. Sure, he nabbed Hale, who is now smirking beatifically at him from behind his blackout visor, but he’s not the real prize.

Stiles is gunning for Morrell.

“Can you be my nightingale  
Sing to me  
I know you’re there  
You could be my sanity  
Bring me peace  
Sing me to sleep  
Say you’ll be my nightingale”

Once he adjusts to the light, there’s no stopping him. Stiles slides into the fucking zone. Moving his right leg to the beat, he smiles, drawing the crowd in as he snaps the microphone into the stand in front of him and makes love to the camera. The pianist hits their stride and the drums kick in, causing Stiles’ hips to start swaying. With one last fierce look toward Peter Hale, Stiles narrows his eyes and stares at the empty space next to him.

“Somebody speak to me  
‘cause I’m feeling like hell  
Need you to answer me  
I’m overwhelmed”

There we go, Stiles thinks, grinning like a madman as a black curtain drops and Erica goddamn Reyes comes into view, lit up like the Fourth of July. He knew that line would get her.

As reigning badass pop Queen, Reyes loves a singer with some attitude. Her last album featured a hit called “I’ll Fuck Her Better, Limpdick.” She’s an open book with a billion Instagram followers. Her lingerie pics are the stuff of legends and, believe it or not, she can actually sing like Pat Benatar.

It hadn’t taken him and Lydia long to decide how to get her to Cue the Lights. One verse of sassy, clipped words had been enough.

It’s faint, but Stiles can hear the strings come in with the staccato.

Say what you want about stupid reality music game shows, but their house bands are chock full of ridiculously talented musicians. Stiles kind of feels like headbanging as soon as the strings section comes in but he refrains. As much as he loves a well-plucked string, rocking out really wouldn’t fit the mood.

“I never see the forest for the trees  
I could really use your melody  
Mama, I’m a little blind  
I think it’s time  
For you to find me”

Stiles takes it up with a well-rehearsed run. Normally, that wouldn’t be his thing at all, but he’s not an idiot. The uncultured masses love a fucking vocal run. Just as expected, the audience explodes with movement, and noise, he assumes, though he can’t hear it over his earpiece. It’s invigorating, Stiles has never had so much positive attention in his life.

He can’t help himself. Stiles looks directly into camera four and winks.

Erica Reyes can’t see it, but that doesn’t stop her from leaping out of her chair, cupping her hands, and yelling something at him. As he gets back to the chorus, she turns around, still blinded by her visor, and starts swaying to the beat with her hands up over her head, urging the crowd to join her.

“Can you be my nightingale  
You sing to me  
I know you’re there”

Stiles watches in awe at her sequin fringe covered ass spins back around and keeps watching. He wants desperately to run over and give her a hug, but as soon as that thought enters his mind, Lydia’s voice cuts in reminding him to get his head back in the fucking game.

This isn’t fun; this is business.

It doesn’t matter if God himself is shaking his ass along to the beat of Stiles’ audition song. He can’t allow himself to take his eyes off the prize for even one second.

Finally, he makes it to the bridge and now it’s time to bust out all the stops. Stiles knows his falsetto is the moneymaker, so now all he has to do is shake it. The hardest part is making sure to give the audience a real, genuinely human moment. To accomplish this, Stiles goes back to his original strategy—tug on those heartstrings.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you  
Your words are like a whisper come through  
As long as you are with me here tonight  
I’m good”

The instruments rise in a crescendo and then cut out. Stiles gets to do this bit a cappella, like a fucking boss. For a second, Stiles can take a deep breath and allow himself to remember how he got here and what he’s doing all this for. He pictures his father’s face.

It’s barely any effort at all to pull up a mental image of the Sheriff standing in the sun next to Claudia on their wedding day. The photo is still up on their mantle at home in Beacon Hills. Somehow, he knows that’s not enough. His adrenaline is running too high. If Stiles doesn’t choose the right memory, the tears might not come.

Then, all of a sudden, it’s his cue. The cue is passing him, he’s let the count go too long. Biting his lip and mentally cursing himself, Stiles thinks of his mother. Imagining her there, alive in the hospital, tucking his father in for some much-needed rest post surgery, singing him to sleep… that’s what does it. As softly as he can, after what may be the longest caesura in the history of music, Stiles sings.

“Can you be my nightingale  
Still so close, I know you’re there”

It’s stupid, but there are actually tears escaping his eyes now. His voice breaks a little on the last word, but the instruments are coming back in and hide the error well. Taking a deep breath, Stiles stares upward at the lights, doing his best to clear his throat before the big moment, the soaring pop-style vowel that’s supposed to pull Chris Argent, the throwback country singer, into his web.

“Oh, nightingale”

Fuck, Stiles thinks. He’s still not Cueing the Lights. Lydia and Stiles had done their research. It’s always the clear, dead-perfect pitch vowels that draw Argent’s attention. Stiles isn’t sure what he should do now, but whatever it is, he has to do it fast. His 90 seconds are almost up.

“Sing to me, I know you’re there”

Going for broke, Stiles breaks out a growl on the end of his low run.

It works!

Argent’s chair is revealed and he looks grudgingly impressed. His eyes are still covered, and he does not look happy about it. Even from the stage, Stiles can see that his skin is pinched by the fancy visor. With one hand covering his mouth in a thoughtful pose, Argent’s head bobs ever so slightly to the beat.

With an exasperated fist pump, Stiles keeps going. He didn’t know it would feel like this—that 90 seconds would feel like an eternity that ends too quick, that he’d be gasping for breath even though he’s practiced supporting his notes a thousand times, that he’d be grasping for straws, amending his carefully crafted plan on the fly to get each coach to Cue the Lights.

Stiles is exhausted, but he swallows hard and removes the mic from the stand once more. With his left hand over his heart, he tilts his face to the sky and tries to finish strong. Anyone who’s watched Hit Single more than once knows that Morrel doesn’t Cue the Lights until the very end. She’s the most selective and consequently the winningest coach the show has ever seen.

Momentarily forgetting everything he’s ever learned about this stupid show, Stiles thinks of his mother and the way she used to push his hair back from his forehead to press a kiss there when she put him to sleep. Closing his eyes, he imagines the gesture, concentrating hard enough that he can almost believe the sweat dripping down his skin is her caress.

“Cause mama you’re my sanity”

He clutches at his henley and stomps his foot on the floor in emphasis, pushing his voice hard enough to crack again. Either tears or sweat drip down his face and he can’t be bothered to care about which. He needs this.

Hoping against hope he’s not doing irreparable damage to himself, Stiles growls out the last loud line at full voice even though the plan was to do it in a heartbreaking falsetto run.

“You bring me peace, sing me to sleep”

When Morrel’s curtain is removed, Stiles thinks he actually lets out a sob. Her smooth, luminescent skin is lit up like a beacon as soon as she hits her Cue the Lights button. The effect is magnified by the way the light glints off her large chandelier earrings, scattering glittering shadows all over her impeccably cut, blood-red pantsuit.

At long last, Stiles can collapse. He nabbed Morrell. As far as he’s concerned, the money’s in the bag. Unabashedly sobbing, he finishes the last line in a whisper.

“Say you’ll be my nightingale”

Yanking his earpiece out, Stiles backs away from the microphone and covers his mouth with one hand, shaking. The auditorium lights come up and Stiles can finally see the crowd. Thousands of people are on their feet cheering for him. It’s like nothing he’s ever experienced. Sure, he may have faked the whole thing, but these people are screaming because they like his voice. They’re screaming because they like him. Stiles can hardly believe it, but it’s happening.

He’s made it.

The theme music plays and before Stiles can wipe the tears from his cheeks, Allison is by his side holding out a new microphone for him to take.

“Now, it’s time to hear some predictions from our coaches,” she says, pulling Stiles into the right camera shot. “First up, Chris Argent.”

Stiles blinks to clear his vision looks down toward the coaches. They’re all a little fidgety, apart from Peter Hale, who is leaning back in his seat with his arms folded, a satisfied smirk on his face.

“I think he might be twelve,” Argent says, wiggling his nose to relieve some of the pressure around his visor.

“Dad, you know the age requirement is 15,” Allison says with a giggle.

“I still think he’s twelve. No grown man should have a falsetto like that.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, and then his hips, which gets a laugh from the crowd.

“What about that growl, though,” Erica Reyes says, turning in her chair toward Chris even though she can’t see him. “You can’t get a rasp like that out of a twelve-year-old.”

“Depends on what you do to one, I imagine,” Peter Hale says cooly, cutting her off.

“Don’t be gross,” she says, throwing a balled up piece of paper at him. “Is that why you divorced him, Argent?

“None of your damn business, Reyes,” Hale simpers, still smiling like he’s in complete control of the room. It’s chilling, the way Stiles’ attention is immediately drawn to the man’s jawline and throat as he speaks.

“Morrell?” Allison cuts in. “Any predictions?”

“I think this one is for me,” she says in that freaky, over-enunciated way she’s famous for. “He’s going to choose me. Aren’t you, little one?” Morrell says, visor-covered face snapping forward to stare directly into Stiles’ soul.

Stiles doesn’t know how she knows where he’s standing, but now that he’s actually in the same room as one of his music idols and can feel her vibe, he’s pretty sure the woman is a witch… or possibly psychic.

“Okay, we’ve heard from all of the judges,” Allison says, smiling brightly. “So now it’s time for them to remove their visors and let our contestant introduce himself. Stiles?”

“Hi,” Stiles says, bouncing nervously as he watches the four coaches lay eyes on him for the first time. “I’m Stiles Stilinski. I’m 24, from Beacon Hills, California, and I’m here to make a hit single for my father who is watching this live from Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. Hi, Sheriff!” Stiles adds, waving at camera two. “It’s way past your bedtime, Pops. You need to rest.” He can almost hear his father rolling his eyes from here.

The crowd erupts with noise that Stiles can actually hear this time. It’s so shocking he actually rocks back on his heels and laughs.

“Well, Stiles,” Allison says, ignoring the way Erica Reyes is hopping out of her seat and wolf whistling at her contestant. It must happen a lot. “Since all four coaches Cued the Lights for you, the choice is yours. Who would you like to work with this season?”

“I respect all of you and think you all make incredible music. But I choose Morrell,” Stiles says with a nervous smile. The lights go red and an alarm type sound effect plays. Stiles isn’t sure what just happened, but he thinks the crowd is booing—or half booing half cheering, at least.

“Uhoh,” Allison says. “Our fans know what that means!”

“What does it mean?” Stiles asks in a confused mutter, eyeing Allison suspiciously.

“That sound means one of our coaches has used their 3 Bars button!”

“What the fuck is that?” Stiles groans. He was so close. He had Morrell in the bag and now some cutesy game mechanic is going to ruin his plan? Fuck this show.

“Language,” Allison says through her teeth before explaining. “New this season, each coach has the power to block all the other coaches from getting a contestant on their team. It can only be done once, so someone out there really loves your voice. Any idea who it is, Stiles?”

“Uhh…” Stiles says, eyes flicking between the four coaches. This was so not what was supposed to happen.

“It was me.”

Stiles might faint. It’s so hot on stage under the lights and there are millions of people looking at him right now and Stiles might be hallucinating because he thinks Peter Hale is standing up and walking toward him and that can’t possibly be right.

“What?” he asks dumbly, eyes going wide as the rock legend himself straightens the open collar of his shirt and strides even closer. Seriously, there’s a lot of chest on display. Stiles thinks his brain is short-circuiting because he counts 1, 2, 3, no 4 open buttons on that shirt and that sort of thing just shouldn’t be allowed, not in front of gay boys who haven’t had sex in nearly a year. Stiles is only human. He might be staring.

He’s definitely staring.

“I used my 3 Bars button to steal you, Stiles.”

Now Peter fucking Hale is right in front of Stiles on stage and pulling him into a hug. They’re touching. Stiles’ sweaty face is being tucked into Peter fucking Hale’s bare throat and his gay little heart can’t take it. When Peter pulls away, Stiles can feel his mouth opening and closing like a fish but he just can’t make it stop.

“Hello, darling,” Peter purrs barely an inch from Stiles’ skin. “You’re something really special, and I can’t wait to get to know you better.”

“Keep it in your pants, Hale!” Chris Argent is screaming from his chair. “You’re old enough to be his father!”

“Like that ever stopped you, Christopher,” Peter says back, not even bothering to raise his voice. The microphone is picking him up loud and clear even over the screaming crowd. “I seem to remember one particular incident in... 1988, wasn’t it?”

“Cut it out before the poor kid comes in his pants!” Erica Reyes shouts, leaning out of her chair to punch Argent in the arm.

Stiles licks his lips and stares straight ahead at Peter fucking Hale who is still looking at him with the clearest blue eyes Stiles has ever seen. If he looked down right now, he’s pretty sure he’d find that he’s at least half-mast in his skinny jeans, so he cannot under any circumstances look down.

“So there you have it!” Allison practically yelps, trying to pull the attention back to her. “Stiles Stilinski will join team Hale. We’ve got even more Pitch Dark auditions to come, so keep it here on Hit Single!”

“AND WE’RE OUT!” Stiles hears from offstage followed by a shrill whistle. “Clear out Bilinski, we’ve only got two minutes to reset the damn curtains and shit,” Finstock says, stomping forward. “And if I catch you getting frisky with this one, your ass is grass, Hale. Look at him! He’s shaking in his big boy panties. The kid can’t handle you, Hale, don’t even try it!”

“What the—I am not!” Stiles says, backing away and tripping over nothing at all. On closer inspection, now that he’s face planted on the floor, Stiles can see that he tripped over the reflective tape X which is pretty much flat on the stage. He tripped over his own stupidity, really.

“I’m after nothing untoward, Finstock,” Hale says, crouching down in front of Stiles to hold out a hand. “Just the music. Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Yeah uh…” Stiles says, blinking several times before letting Hale pull him up. “Just…”

“The music,” Argent says from his chair. He’s already back in his blackout visor and even though Stiles’ can’t see his eyes, the man’s expression is telling enough. He’s resigned—tired. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Peter. It was never about the music with you.”

“Shut your mouth, Christopher. This isn’t about us,” Hale says pleasantly, eyes still locked on Stiles.

“It never was, was it?” Argent says coldly, turning away to allow a technician to powder his nose.

“Don’t listen to him, darling,” Peter Hale says, patting Stiles’ cheek before stepping backward toward his chair. “I’ve been clean and sober for longer than you’ve been out of diapers. The music is all the high I need these days. Trust me.”

“Uhh…” Stiles has no idea what he just walked into, but he’s pretty sure he’s missing several key pieces of the story.

“Out, Bilinski!” Finstock yells, blowing his whistle again. “This stage is going Pitch Dark again in ten seconds and you need to get your ass to the backstage cam, pronto!”

“Yeah, Coach. Going…” Stiles says, letting a handler escort him stage right.

“It’s CUPCAKE!” Finstock screams at his retreating back. “Who’s Coach?” he mutters to his assistant. “There’s no coach here.”

“I think it might be the whistle, cupcake,” a voice answers. “You’re kind of giving people mixed messages.”

“No one has time for your MBA garbage right now, Greenberg. The show must go on! Tell Baby Argent I need her like a deer this time. Less fox, more deer,” Stiles hears just as the stage door closes behind him and a camera is shoved in his face.


	3. Chapter 3

“Okay,” Stiles says, flopping down on a patio chair.  “Fill me in. What am I up against?”

“Should you really be talking to me there?  What if someone overhears?” Lydia asks, voice low and conspiratorial in Stiles’ earbud.  She and Scott will be at the hotel for a few more nights but then they have to get back to class, until that time, however, they’re his eyes and ears.

“I’m already sharing a room with three other dudes,” Stiles groans, running a hand through his hair.  “If they hear me talking trash about them out on the deck, too fucking bad. This isn’t high school, this is television.  The cameras eat this shit up and they know it. It’s all an act.”

“The Single House is getting to you, huh?” Lydia laughs.  “You’ve only been there 16 hours.”

“15 and a half hours too long if you ask me,” Stiles huffs, staring angrily through the glass back into the living room.  “Fucking bro central in here.”

“I thought it was coed.”

“Not since ‘the incident’ last year with Hayden and Liam.  It’s like fucking Hogwarts now. Ladies on the second floor, men on the first floor.  You’re only allowed to mingle during daylight hours in the common areas and there’s security on the staircase after lights out.”

“Geeze, you got a curfew too, babycakes?” Lydia jokes.  

“11 p.m.”

“Seriously?  Like you’re actually being serious right now?”

“Like my Dad’s cholesterol numbers,” Stiles says, lips twitching sadly.  

“Okay sad sack, back to business.  Here’s what I was able to find out.”

“Lay it on me.”

“First, we’ve got Vernon Boyd.”

“Yup.  Quiet guy, really big.  I think he wants to eat me.”

“Well, he’s got the voice of an angel.  Really spectacular stuff straight from heaven.  Think like if Josh Groban and Jennifer Hudson had a baby.  He did _Silence_ by Marshmello but just…  pretend he did it like Celine Dion or you know, Jesus.”

“Fuck,” Stiles says, groaning.  He had kinda liked Boyd, too. The dude kept to himself and didn’t steal Stiles’ milk like some of the other guys had already.  Now he was going to have to murder him if he wanted to win this thing. “I don’t know if I can compete with that, Lyds.”

“Don’t get excited yet, you haven’t even heard the half of it.”

“Fuck, keep it coming, I guess…”

“Next up we’ve got Isaac,” Lydia rattles off like she’s reading from a list.  Which she might be, now that Stiles thinks about it. “He sang _Boys from the South_.”

“Lahey?” Stiles asks, just as the man in question strolls through the living room.  He watches the man through the window, frowning when he sees him pick up a guitar and flop down on the couch, blond curls bouncing in a non-existent breeze.  “He’s the one that looks like a cherub—like little birds wrap him in his scarves every morning and chipmunks dry off his abs when he gets out of the shower.”

“That’s the one,” Lydia barrels through, uncaring of Stiles’ lament.  “You might be in trouble there. He’s gay, too, obvious from his song choice, which is something of a novelty in the country world.  Plus he’s got a serious sob story. Abusive father, foster homes, drug and alcohol abuse… He’s 9 months sober and has the most adorable southern accent.  Chris Argent picked him up, said his story spoke to him. He’s going to be a fan favorite. And you’re no longer the token gay, so keep that in mind.”

“Great,” Stiles groans, rolling head from side to side, already feeling like he’s tensing up.  “What else you got?”

“Jackson Whittemore,” Lydia says quickly… almost too quickly.

“Got a crush, Lyds?” Stiles teases, a wry smile turning the corner of his mouth.  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Stiles laughs outright.  “Let me guess… Mr. Sunshine took his shirt off during his audition?”

“No,” Lydia says.  “Why?”

“Because not for one second in the last 16 hours has that dude had all of his clothes on,” Stiles says just as the man himself enters the living room in his designer boxer-briefs and ruffles Isaac’s hair before stealing his guitar and loosening all the pegs.  “I’m pretty sure he’s physically incapable of being a decent human being.”

“Well, get used to it, because he’s your main competition.”

”What?” Stiles hisses, lunging off his lounge chair and practically smacking himself in the face as he catches his balance.

“He’s on Peter Hale’s team as well.  I’m surprised he hasn’t rubbed that in your face yet.  He did a nice, stripped down version of _There’s Nothing Holdin’ Me Back_ ,” Lydia informs him in a whisper.  “Dude may be a colossal douche, but he dances and he’s got a voice, and Peter Hale recognized that, same as he did with you,” she says, adding insult to injury.  “Jackson he’s… well, frankly he’s like a twenty-five-year-old Justin Bieber but way more talented and way more attractive. Plus, he’s not a teenybopper, so he’s eliminated the skeeve factor.  Everyone on the planet already wants to tap that. He’s going to be hard to beat.”

“That fucker!” Stiles exclaims, drawing the attention of everyone on the opposite side of the glass.  “FUCK!” he shouts again, tossing his hands up in the air as Jackson, Boyd, Isaac, all start shouting back through the windows.  

Even Theo pops his head in from the hall to scream, “What the everloving fuck, Stilinski?  Are you experiencing a mental break? Need me to call the medic? Or do you think you can keep it the fuck down without sedation this time?  Fucking headcase!”

“Fuck you, Theo!”

“Real original, Stilinski!”

“Sorry about the noise, but some of us actually have friends to talk to on the phone!”

“Whatever, asshole!  Talk smack all you want, but Brett is trying to nap in here!  Just keep that self-flagellation on the inside, okay? We’ve all got our own way of preparing!” Theo shouts back.

Stiles’ mouth flaps a few time as he struggles to find a comeback.  Lydia is still talking in his ear—“Is Theo topless, too? What about Boyd?  Can you take photos? I bet we could make a killing selling to the paps if you caught something good”—and he can’t think.

Jackson takes his silence as an opportunity to stride forward and ask, “Are you talking to that red-head again?  Ask her if she wants some of this,” he says, trailing a hand down the side of his neck and over his abs, all the way down to his not-insignificant bulge.  

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles whispers, turning away as his face heats.  “You’re disgusting. I’m not asking her that, Whittemore!”

“What did he say?” Lydia practically screeches.  

“I’m not telling you.”

“You’re hard right now, aren’t you?”

“What?  Why are you—NO!”

“I knew it!  That’s your _hiding a boner_ voice!”

“I do not have a _hiding a boner_ voice!”

“Yes, you do!  It’s the voice you use whenever we’re Skyping but you have porn up in another window!”

“Fuck, Lydia!” Stiles groans.  “You’re supposed to just ignore that kind of thing!  Be a fucking bro for once in your life!”

“If you want a brother, talk to Scott.  I’m your best fucking friend so just tell me about his dick, will you please?”

“We are not doing that.  That is a not a thing that we do, Lyds.”

“It’s a thing that I do.  You just refuse to play along for some reason.”

“Because I’m a gentleman,” Stiles says, feigning offense.

“If by _gentleman_ you mean, _haven’t had sex in a year_ , then sure, you’re a _gentleman_.”

“Put Scott on the phone.  I think I’ve had enough of your perspective now.”

“Not a chance,” Lydia says.  A soft fabric noise tells Stiles she’s settling down against the pillows in her hotel room.  “We haven’t even covered the women yet.”

“Lydiaaaa!” Stiles whines, flopping back down against the lounge chair with an arm over his eyes, blocking the afternoon sun.  

“Do you want to win this thing or not?”

Taking a deep breath, Stiles tosses his head back against the cushion and lets the Los Angeles sunshine bleed behind his eyelids.  He needs to focus. Acting like a hormonal teenager is not going to win this competition. There’s too much riding on this.

“Yes,” Stiles says simply.  “I want to win this.”

“No...”

“No,” Stiles repeats.  “I _need_ to win this.”

“That’s right,” Lydia says, a smile growing in her voice.  “Now—back to business. There’s this girl Kira on Morrell’s team that plays the ukulele…”

“Fuck.”

“Yes.  You’re completely fucked,”  Lydia agrees. “She’s gorgeous and so sweet she could give a dentist cavities.  She sang that song from Moana and girl could give Alessia Cara a run for her money.  Then there’s Malia Hale.”

“Hale?” Stiles asks, eyes flashing open quickly only to be squeezed shut immediately once he’s blinded himself.

“Yeah,” Lydia goes on, talking a mile a minute.  “She’s one of those whackos that thinks her mom is one of the million people Peter Hale fucked in the 80s.”

“Another one?” Stiles groans.  His faith in Peter Hale’s coaching ability is withering by the minute.  

The man is a hot mess.  Anyone who hasn’t been under a rock for the last thirty years knows the story of how he got into a stupid fight with The Duke aka Deucalion Hawthorne and caused the Alphas’ break up.  Canceling a tour of that size after the first city must have cost him millions, even by 90s standards.

Between that and his historic crash and burn of a marriage with Chris Argent, Peter Hale is lucky to still have a career at all.  No wonder the only paying gig he can get is as a glorified babysitter. That man has no business being anyone’s mentor, let alone Stiles’ one shot at winning Hit Single’s prize money.  

Stiles did his job.  He got all four coaches to Cue the Lights, even nabbing Morrell at the last second, and for what?  Just to have Peter fucking Hale ruin it for him with some stupid new loophole in the show’s rules?

“Stiles?  You still with me?” Lydia’s tinny voice asks.  

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, rubbing his eyes and turning over onto his stomach to bury his head in his arms.  “Back it up, what did you say?”

“She just changed her name for the publicity.  Malia may be bonkers, but word on the street is that one of the contestants _is_ actually a _legitimate_ illegitimate child of Peter Hale.”

“Really?” Stiles asks, perking up slightly.  “Which one, do you think?”

“I’m not sure yet.  I couldn’t get any more out of Allison and talking to Finstock is like trying to carry on a conversation with an actual cupcake, but my money’s on Theo Raeken.  He’s got that look about him.”

“God, it’s like fucking Days of Our Lives in here,” Stiles groans, attempting to smother himself with the cushion of his chair.  Asphyxiation must be better than competing in a damn soap opera.

“Every little bit of intel helps,” Lydia reminds him.  “Even if it doesn’t seem important now, you might be able to use it to your advantage later.  Just keep your head in the game.”

“Can’t it just be about the music?  Singing is supposed to be fun! That’s why people do it!”

“You know that’s not the point.  It’s all about the ratings, honey.  Ratings and airtime and advertising revenue,” she says like he hasn’t heard it all a thousand times before.  “That’s why we…”

“Stick to the strategy,” Stiles parrots back.  

“Exactly,” Lydia says, clipped.  “You do it exactly as we practiced, and you’ll make it to the finale.  Then even if you don’t win by some horrid conflagration of rigged political nonsense or flashy cheap tricks, you’ll at least still get a backup singer gig out of someone, or a record contract if we’re lucky.  Then you call me and I’ll negotiate a lump sum up front and we’ll save the house. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“That’s my boy,” Lydia says fondly.  “Now tell me more about these twins that share a bed.”

“They’re not sharing a bed, Lyds.  They’re sharing a bed _room._ We all are.”

“Semantics.”

 

* * *

 

 “Hello, darling,” Peter Hale drawls the instant Stiles pulls the studio door open.

“Uhh… Stiles.”

“What’s that, beautiful?” he asks, flouncing forward to take Stiles’ hands and squeeze them.  It’s like the man is gliding on casters the way he seems to float forward, mere inches from Stiles in no time.

“Stiles.  My name is Stiles,” he says, breath hitching when Peter fucking Hale leans in to press kisses to each of his cheeks like he’s just flown in from Italy.  Maybe he has, Stiles reminds himself as he gets a huge lungful of the man’s cologne.

_Fuck, he smells good._

Everything about this is unfair.  From the wide open velour smoking jacket the guy is wearing to his sequin covered wingtips, Peter Hale is an enigma.  He’s Elton John and Bono, and Steven Tyler, and Gene Simmons all wrapped into one. He’s a _legend_ and for all the hype Stiles has tried to brush off as silly fan gibberish in the past, the word fits.

Intimidating doesn’t even begin to cover it.  

Stiles feels like a fly being drawn into a spiderweb, enveloped by something otherworldly.  Either the pendant that’s nestled in between the man’s pecs is some sort of magical artifact or Stiles is even more hard up than Lydia suspects.  

There is nothing okay about any of this.  Stiles has a job to do, a plan to stick to, and the sheer number of accessories on this man should be absurd, but somehow he doesn’t look like Stiles’ Bubby after a score at the flea market, he looks like fucking sex incarnate.  

No wonder all those panties got thrown at him when he was in his prime.  

Stiles is considering throwing himself on the floor and unzipping those sinfully tight pants right now and he’s completely sober.  With all the club drugs flying around in that era, the groupies of yesteryear had no fucking chance.

The outfit is completely absurd, from the little John Lennon glasses nestled into his bouffant to the heavy wolf head ring adorning his pinky.  But then the man smiles at him and suddenly, Stiles has no trouble believing Peter Hale has a horde of illegitimate children running around all over the world.  They’ve probably got their own Facebook group and are planning a family reunion for the summer.

“Of course it is.  Stiles.”

The word comes out slowly, half purr, half hiss, and Stiles has no idea what to do with it.  He’s still pressed into the man’s thick throat, inhaling musk that must be specially made, because whatever it is can’t possibly be commercially available.  People don’t just smell like that.

The way Stiles has been worked up by such a brief encounter would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic and unsettling.

“And please, call me Peter.”

“O-kay… Peter,” Stiles manages, swallowing around the lump in his throat.  That better not be his _hiding a boner_ voice.  If it is, Stiles is already screwed.  He has to sing, for fuck’s sake.

It’s just the cologne getting to him—the heavy, oppressive scent of 1980s heartthrob that’s choking him, making him look like a babbling idiot in front of the cameras.  All Stiles has to do is shake it off and everything will be fine.

“First, let me please tell you how thrilled I am to have you all to myself.”

“What?” Stiles asks inelegantly.

“I used my 3 Bars button for you,” Peter says, raising his eyebrows at the camera behind Stiles’ head.  

“W-why did you do that?” Stiles asks, desperately pretending that the cameras aren’t rolling.  He needs to come off as natural, confident, ready for the celebrity that comes with a career in the music industry, not like a starstruck, blundering idiot.

“You’re a smart one, aren’t you?” Peter asks, running a thumb down Stiles’ cheek.  

Fuck!  They’ve only been in a room together for two minutes and Stiles already feels like the man’s hands have been all over his body.

“I didn’t finish college,” Stiles admits.  “But I was going part-time for forensic science, so yeah, I guess—”

“—That’s not it at all,” Peter continues.  “You’re not just book smart. I can tell.”

“You don’t know anything about me.  We just met,” Stiles shoots back, taking the opportunity to put Peter on the back foot.  

“Ohh, a feisty one, are we?  I like that,” Peter says with a devilish smirk.  He takes a seat on a stool by the piano, spreading his smoking jacket and letting it fall behind the chair in a dramatic movement.  “Tell me more, darling.”

“I just mean…” Stiles starts, backtracking.  Getting snippy with your coach is no way to make a good impression on America but Peter Hale seems to already know how to get under his skin and it’s only their second meeting.  They got rid of the team-switching Steal function Hit Single had last season so he has no chance of getting another coach. Peter is it, so he has to make it work.

“There’s a lot more to me than being smart,” he says, already wondering what he could offer Finstock to get this little slip-up cut from the final package.  Did the man eat cupcakes or just like to be called cupcake? Should Stiles buy him a baker’s dozen or call him an escort that specializes in that sort of thing?

“Please, go on,” Peter prompts with what looks like a genuine smile.

Here it is, an open-ended question.  Stiles is being given an opportunity to tell the world about himself, to make them fall in love with him, and he’s drawing a complete blank.  Something about being interviewed by an international celebrity is a little disarming. They practiced this, time and time again, hours in his garage with Scott and in the mirror alone, but now that the time has come, Stiles is choking.

“I—”

“It’s okay, take your time,” Peter says, laying his hand out across the lid of the piano, a lifeline made out of tan skin and thick hair, there for the taking if Stiles wants it.

“I— It’s— It’s been a really rough road for me to get here,” he says finally, earning another smile from Peter.  He furiously wipes underneath his eyes before taking a deep breath and continuing on. “I lost one parent and very nearly lost the other one and all through that time I’ve used music as an outlet.  Death and mental illness and addiction, they’re all heavy topics for a young kid to handle. Sometimes nothing made sense and I’d be angry and restless and alone and feel like I needed to scream and sometimes…” he closes his eyes and trails off, wanting to find the right words to bring this thing home.

“Sometimes if you scream loud and long enough… you can find a way to turn all that pain and noise into something bigger than yourself,” he says, tilting his head like if he strains hard enough he’ll be able to hear his mother’s voice in the distance.  

“If you can hone in on the words in your heart and the sounds in your head and share them with other people… if you can put that all together and-and help them to understand how you feel and in doing that maybe even help them to understand themselves as well…

“If you can do all that…”

“...you make music.”  Peter’s voice finishes the thought.

Exhaling heavily, Stiles opens his eyes to find Peter’s fingertips just a breath away from his where they’re clutching the edge of the piano.  Stiles pulls away, but Peter’s hands stay there a beat longer.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Peter says, clearing his throat and sitting up straight.  “Now tell me, Stiles… What song have you decided to do this week?”

“We’re supposed to choose something that defines us as an artist,” Stiles recites, making sure to get the wording right.  They’d made him go over it several times before entering the studio. “So I’ve decided to sing something that reminds me of where I came from.  I’m doing _Sweet Child O’ Mine_ by Guns N’ Roses.”

“Interesting choice,” Peter says, gesturing for Stiles to get himself acquainted with the microphone set up in front of the studio band.  “That’s a big vocal, but I’m sure you can handle it. Why this song?”

“It’s something my dad used to sing to my mom,” Stiles says, a wistful smile crossing his face.  “He’s completely tone deaf but he tries. This is one of the only songs he actually knows all the words too.  We used to belt it on road trips and when I saw their eyes in the rearview mirror—blue and brown—I kind of always felt like they were singing it to me and not just each other.”

“That’s perfect, darling.  Really,” Peter says, nodding as the band gives their ready signal.  “A vivid memory like that makes for a great jumping off point. Now, show me what you’ve got.”

They run through the song several times, tweaking things here and there, even taking the key up a half step when Peter decides Stiles can handle it.  By the time the band is done packing up for lunch, the cameras have stopped rolling and it’s just Stiles alone with Peter.

It’s even more intimate than before when Stiles’ already felt like they were the only two people in the universe despite the cameras.  The scratch of his pencil against the paper on his music stand is the only sound left in the fabric-draped studio.

“You’re not fooling anyone, you know that right?”

“What?” Stiles asks, eyes narrowing as Peter crosses the soft floor to invade his personal space once more.

“No more cameras, this is just me and you, so I’m going to give it to you for real, okay?” Peter asks, waiting for a reluctant nod before continuing.  

Stiles is still trying to make that last sentence stop sounding dirty when Peter cuts through his thoughts.

“I know what you’re doing here,” he says, crossing his arms over his ridiculously pert chest.  

“You do, huh?” Stiles scoffs, rolling his eyes.  “What exactly am I doing here?”

“You’re playing the game,” Peter says, pushing Stiles’ shoulder until he gets full eye contact.  “And I don’t blame you for that. You have a lot riding on this opportunity and I know you’re smart enough to have figured out how to game the system.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the tough guy routine.  You don’t need to act with me, okay?  I’m not your cop father. I’m your coach and I’m trying to be your friend here.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow, but Peter just keeps talking heedless of Stiles’ expression.

“You’re smart and you’re desperate so you’re doing whatever it takes to win.  I get it, you need the money and you’re clever enough to milk the studio and everyone else in the country for everything they’re worth, but let me give you a little advice.”

“I’m listening,” Stiles says when Peter shows no intention of continuing without acknowledgment.

“Good, because I’m only going to say this once,” Peter says, voice pitched low, drawing Stiles in.  “America isn’t stupid.”

Stiles laughs out loud.  “You’re kidding me, right?  Do you even live here? Everyone’s an idiot!  And as a group, they’re even worse!”

“No.  You’re wrong and I’ll tell you why,” Peter says, pointing a ring-encrusted finger at Stiles.  “I listened to your audition, I mean _really_ listened and I saw potential there, but I also saw right through your bullshit.  You’re laying it on too thick,” he continues, agitation shaking his ridiculously coiffed hair.  

“All those little flourishes?  All that showboating you just did in rehearsal?  You don’t need any of that garbage. People don’t need the cookie cutter, watered-down version of you.  They don’t want another dime-a-dozen pretty voice. They don’t want the fake drama. No matter how hard you try, it always rings false.  You know what wins people over?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me, so why don’t you just get on with it?” Stiles asks, looking back down at his music and scribbling in the notes of a run he’d like to go over a few dozen more times before it’s perfect.

“Fuck, listen to the mouth on you,” Peter says, growing frustrated.  “Stop back talking for one second and let me tell you something real.  I’ve been in this business for a long time and even though you probably think the whole of the 80s and 90s were a drug-induced blur for me—which is true for the most part—I still learned a lot and the best lesson I could ever teach you is this…”

Stiles draws his eyes back up to Peter’s as slow as he dares.  

“People respond to honesty.”

“Are you kidding me?  Do you even know who’s president right now?”

“This isn’t politics, this is art.  All those people want, all they really want?” Peter says, left hand coming down on Stiles’ shoulder and squeezing tight.  “Is one genuine moment from you.”

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do here?  I’m giving it my all and you’re just riding my ass anyway!”

“Trust me, darling, if I was riding your ass, you’d know it,” Peter says with a wry smirk.  He rolls his eyebrows in an absurd little wave of motion that shakes Stiles out of his daze.

“Very funny,” Stiles says, shrugging Peter’s hand off.  He’s getting sick of this over-the-top flirting. Now is really not the time.

“I’m being perfectly serious,” Peter says, moving that hand to cup Stiles’ cheek instead.  

 _God, this man is touchy._  Stiles wonders if all celebrities that take liberties like this or if it’s just a special Peter Hale quality that he’s fallen victim to.  Either way, those blue eyes bore into his like a high-frequency laser and yet again, Stiles is transfixed.

“They want to feel something, really feel something.  You don’t need to trick them. You just have to let yourself be yourself.”

“I can’t just—we have a plan!”

“And I’m sure it’s a great plan, Stiles,” Peter says, mouth curling into an indulgent smile, “but the best-laid plans of mice and men…”

Stiles hates himself, but he feels compelled to finish the line.  “Often go awry,” he says, sing-song but dull.

“Exactly,” Peter says, hand sliding away from Stiles’ jaw and down to rest on his clavicle.  His thumb just brushes over Stiles’ windpipe, causing a worrying flutter in his gut. “Clever boy.”

A minute goes by and Stiles just stands there breathing, feeling the weight of Peter’s thumb ring tap against his throat in rhythmic circles.  Then the other fingers join in on the side of his neck and Stiles realizes they’re tapping out the intro to _Sweet Child O’ Mine_ like he’s a fucking guitar.

“I think I know what to do,” he breathes, licking his lips when Peter’s fingers start pressing down harder in his excitement.

“You do?”

“You want the real me?”

“Not just me, darling,” Peter says, stroking down Stiles’ throat, over his shoulder and down his forearm.  By the time he gets to Stiles’ fingertips, Stiles has flipped over his hand, opening himself to the sensation of Peter’s calluses tickling his palm.  “The whole world.”

“You better be right about this,” Stiles says, biting down on his lower lip as Peter pulls away.

“I’m always right,” Peter breathes into his ear before floating out of the studio in a cloud of velour, sequins, and musk.

 

* * *

Swallowing down his fear, Stiles flicks the strings of his violin one more time to check the tuning and assumes his playing position, tucking his favorite swatch of plaid fabric between the chinrest and his skin.  He refused the offer of an electric instrument during rehearsal, so there’s a wireless microphone throwing off the balance of his violin, the unfamiliar weight tugging at his collarbone. Taking one more deep breath, Stiles raises left hand and hovers over the strings in second position.

He knows his posture is trash, but he stopped caring about the proper way to play about five minutes after he learned it from his elementary school music teacher.  When the lights come up, Stiles can’t help but smile to himself. He raises his head ever so slightly to look in the direction he knows Peter is sitting and lets the smile grow into a shit-eating grin.  It may be hubris, but truthfully, Stiles just knows he’s going to blow them all away.

Closing his eyes, Stiles tilts his head and raises his bow, letting the familiar intro to _Sweet Child O’ Mine_ sing across the strings.  The crowd cheers and Stiles can feel the tightness in his chest release.  Guns N’ Roses is always a crowd favorite.

His bow scrapes across the strings in rough double stops—exactly how he likes—the sound building the second time through until Stiles can feel the vibration in his teeth.  The crowd reacts appropriately but the applause dies down just in time for the band to take over. Stepping up to the microphone, violin tucked under his arm, Stiles opens up his mouth and sings.

 

“She's got a smile it seems to me

Reminds me of childhood memories

Where everything

Was as fresh as the bright blue sky”

 

“Now and then when I see her face

She takes me away to that special place

And if I'd stare too long

I'd probably break down and cry”

 

“Oh, oh, oh

Sweet child o' mine

Oh, oh, oh, oh

Sweet love of mine”

 

He switches back to the violin quickly for a little interlude, making sure to make his vibrato sing on the high notes.  Now is the time to make it pretty—later is when he can get nasty.

Sliding down the fingerboard, Stiles ignores the shooting pain in his pinky finger.  He can ice it and put his brace on later. When he’s done with his run, he rips the violin from his neck and grabs roughly for the mic stand.  They had to cut a lot of the lyrics to make room for the solo Stiles had insisted upon, so he has to make every single word count.

 

“She's got eyes of the bluest skies

As if they thought of rain

I hate to look into those eyes

And see an ounce of pain”

 

Stepping away from the microphone for a second, Stiles makes sure his plaid cushion is still in place on his shoulder before resettling his instrument.  This is it. He takes one last deep breath and then launches into his “guitar” solo.

He knows it goes on for too long, but in the moment, he just can’t help himself.  Stiles has faith that the band will follow him, and as much as people like to focus on the singing aspect of the show, it is called _Hit Single_.  There’s a lot of politics and tweeting and a popular app that has something to do with it but at the end of the day, all you really have to do is get your track to the top of the charts, and if Stiles can do that—it doesn’t matter if he’s playing a violin or a goddamn kazoo.

The crowd is on their feet, and Stiles has to squeeze his eyes closed and not let himself get distracted by their enthusiasm.  The band gets quiet again and it’s Stiles’ turn to bring it. He goes wild, shredding the strings like a madman, giving it a bluegrass flair full of rhythmic double stops and swooping slurs.  

He opens his eyes and zeros in on his fingerboard.  By the time he’s sliding up into seventh position for the final climax, there are broken hairs hanging from the tip of his bow.  

Fuck!  If he keeps this up he’ll have to get the damn thing rehaired again and that’s way too expensive for him to handle right now.  Maybe he can nab a spare from somewhere before the show is over. It wouldn’t do to leave without at least one souvenir. That way if he gets kicked off early he could have a few things squirreled away to sell at the pawn shop when the debt collectors come calling again.

 

“Oh, oh, oh

Sweet child o' mine

Oh, oh, oh, oh

Sweet love of mine”

 

Fuck Peter Hale and his stupid face, Stiles is going to do those runs, he’s going to press hard and push both ends of his range until he’s sure he’s left every last bit of his soul out on the stage.  That’ll show him. Clearly, it’s the only way.

 

“Where do we go?

Where do we go now?

Where do we go?

Oh, oh

Where do we go?”

 

The production value on these shows is ridiculous!  Actual fire explodes in jets behind him as the crescendo builds.  Stiles wishes for what won’t be the last time that he could just marry rich or get a job as Erica Reyes’ personal Red Bull valet and make enough money in a year that these people seem to in an hour.

 

“Oh,

Where do we go now?

I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I

Where do we go now?

Oh,

Where do we go?

Oh,

Where do we go now?”

 

Stiles takes that anger, every specialist that didn’t take his mom’s insurance, every politician who thought it would be a good idea to cut funding to medical research or the Sheriff’s department, every two-bit bank that bought his father’s debt for pennies on the dollar—he tells them all to fuck off as loudly as he can.  His voice is cracking, straining under the effort, but he shakes his head and stomps his foot and tells it no, not today. Clutching his violin so tightly under his arm he’s afraid the tailpiece will snap, Stiles screams his heart out into the camera.

 

“Where do we go now?

No, no, no, no, no, no

Sweet child,

Sweet child of mine”

 

He finishes it up with a ritard on the violin, dragging his bow across the strings in several slow triple stops.  When he finally gets down to the G string, he slides up the fingerboard in a glissando so rough it sounds like whammy on an electric guitar.  

 _So there_ , Stiles thinks as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with his flannel.  Stiles Stilinski doesn’t need an expensive instrument to bring the house down.  This baby only set his dad back $50 bucks at a yard sale when Stiles was seven and sure, he had to grow into it, but it’s served him well over the years.

The crowd erupts in cheers as the lights come up and Allison joins him on stage.  

“Stiles Stilinski, everyone!” Allison says, allowing him a moment to take another bow.

Eventually, Allison is able to quiet the crowd and the camera focuses on Peter as he is asked for his opinion of Stiles’ performance.

“That is not how you did it in rehearsal,” he says, eyebrows raised behind his tiny, blue-tinted spectacles.

“I know,” is all Stiles can think to say.  His grinning and panting is probably enough answer as it is.

“You didn’t tell me you could play the violin, darling,” Peter drawls, tutting at Stiles with the rapid clicking of his tongue.

“You didn’t ask.”

“Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?” Erica Reyes chimes in, fanning herself with her stack of notecards as the crowd whistles and hollers.  

“Quit flirting, Hale,” Chris Argent says at full voice, dragging the cameras over to him.  “It’s bad enough you had to flatter and cajole every single one of your contestants away from us, but now it’s getting pathetic.  They’re already on your team. Coach them, don’t fuck them.”

“I’m not—” Stiles cuts in, only to be interrupted by Allison who is watching Finstock’s wild hand gestures out of the corner of her eye and thinking of a way to derail the conversation.

“—Any thoughts Morrell?” she squeaks, plastering a smile on her face.  “What did you think of Stiles’ rather unorthodox performance?”

“All things come in time,” Morrell says slowly and deliberately, like a cryptic fortune cookie.  

“To Stiles, you mean?” Allison asks, trying to wrap up the segment with something useful.

“Some need more time than others,” Morrell says, picking an invisible piece of lint off the shoulder of her body suit.  “The music is a gift that we all unwrap alone.”

“Right,” Allison says quickly, nodding rapidly.  “There you have it, folks. If you’d like Stiles Stilinski to remain in this competition, add him to your Bench on the Hit Single app, tweet using the hashtag #StilesHS and download or save his cover of _Sweet Child O’ Mine_ on your favorite music platform.”

“CUT!  CUT! CUT!  ARGENT!” Finstock screams, stomping on stage, heedless of the live studio audience.  

“What is it now, Finstock?” Argent asks, picking up his signature charcoal gambler from its perch by his feet and setting it back on his head.  “I’m going for a smoke.”

“You can’t say FUCK on the air, SHIT HEAD!”

“But y’all bleeped it out, right?  Isn’t that your job?” he asks, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket.  

“There’s not supposed to be anything we need to bleep!  Do you want to get paid, or not?” Finstock gripes. “One more incident like we had last year and we’re toast.  You got that, city slicker?”

“Go tell somebody who cares,” Argent says, boots clicking on the plexiglass floor as he makes for the studio door.  

“And you,” Finstock says, turning to Morrell.  “Can you at least try to make normal sentences?”

“I’ve got a very specific persona to uphold, cupcake,” Morrell says, turning her head dutifully when her hair stylist comes over with a hot iron.  “If you want opinions, talk to Reyes.”

“I can’t work like this!  This show has got more nuts than a Five Guys,” he mutters under his breath before shouting, “Greenberg!”

“Time to go, Stiles,” Allison says, guiding him to a stagehand.  “You can flirt more with Peter before the results show, I promise.”

“What?  I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, sure,” Allison says, tucking her hair back behind her ears.  “I’m sure I just imagined all that eye fucking the two of you were doing,” she says, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows.

Before Stiles has a chance to defend himself, he’s being whisked away and shoved in front of another camera.


	4. Chapter 4

“Heeey Pops!” Stiles says with a smile as soon as his father comes into view in the Skype window.  A camera crew is behind him doing… whatever it is that they do to record their conversation for broadcast.  It feels a lot like living in a fishbowl, but he thinks maybe he’s getting used to it. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” John croaks, attempting to flatten his hospital bedhead.  “I saw you on TV last night. You did such a good job on that old fiddle, kid.  I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles says, swallowing around the lump that comes to his throat every time he sees his father these days, even if it’s only on camera.

“Are you on with Stiles?” Melissa’s voice calls from somewhere.

“Yeah, want to say hi?”

“Hey sweetie!” she says, ducking into view next to John’s hospital bed.  “The whole hospital has been watching you every night! You’re doing so well!”

“Thanks, Melissa,” Stiles says with a knowing smile.  She’s sitting on his father’s bed, close enough that one hand is clutching his bicep.

“We’re all rooting for you, kiddo,” John says, coughing roughly on the last word.  His last surgery led to pneumonia and he hasn’t managed to shake the worst of it. “Even old Doris in the long-term care ward has been watching.”

“Really?  I always thought she hated me.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Stiles,” Melissa chimes back in.  “The whole nursing staff is shipping you and Peter. Tell me what’s really going on there?  For the blog?”

“What blog?” Stiles yelps.

“What’s shipping?” John asks.

“Please tell me I’m hallucinating,” Stiles groans, smacking himself in the forehead.  “We are not having this conversation right now.”

“Carol started a Tumblr and Doris has been snipping all the photos of you and Peter out of the magazines in the waiting room.  She made a whole collage with hearts and stuff, it’s up on the bulletin board by the nurse’s station.”

“You cannot date that man, Stiles.  He’s old enough to be your father,” John cuts in while Stiles continues to moan his anguish low in the back of his throat.  He feels like he does it so often these days it might as well be a vocal exercise.

“Do I need to remind you guys that there are cameras here?  This is being recorded. You have to give them something they can actually use.  You know that right?”

“I don’t care about the cameras, kid,” John barrels through, fear in his eyes.  “Peter Hale… you have no idea where he’s been. Don’t go there.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Pops.  I promise you,” Stiles says for what feels like the thousandth time.  “He’s just my coach.”

“Well, I think he’s doing a wonderful job,” Melissa says, gently elbowing John in the arm.  “You had such an amazing performance!”

“I guess he’s not so bad…” Stiles admits reluctantly.  He doesn’t have proof that his and Lydia’s way wouldn’t have worked, but Peter’s suggestion did land him on the top five, just behind Theo, Kira, Boyd, and fucking Jackson.

“Don’t even think about it, Stiles.  I’m not kidding,” John says, pointing a pale finger at the camera.

“Think about what?”

“Your mom used to have him on her celebrity cheat list.  She had a poster of him up over her bed when we met. Please, please don’t do this to me, kid.”

“For the last time, I’m not doing anything!”

“I know that voice.  It’s your _hiding a boner_ voice.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Stiles yelps.  “I do NOT have a _hiding a boner_ voice.”

“You do and you’re using it right now!  It’s that high-pitched shady tone. It’s a little bit different than your _I did something horrible and you’ll never find out what_ voice that you had when you were a kid, but it’s pretty close.”

“We think it’s cute, Stiles!” Melissa insists, glaring at John.  “If you want to go for it, we’d all have your back.”

“Did you know that guy Boyd could play the organ?” John asks, nipping that topic right in the bud.  “That was something else.”

“Ugh, no, I didn’t,” Stiles groans.  “How did they even get that thing on stage?  That has to be cheating.”

“Just keep your head down and work hard.  I know you’ve got it in you,” John says with a watery smile.

“You know me, Dad…”

“Yeah, I do.  Don’t try to pull anything crazy.”

“Work smarter, not harder, isn’t that what Mom always used to say?”

“I think she meant not to grind at your math homework for hours before going to extra help, but sure.  I know you’re gonna do what you want.”

“That’s why I love you, Pops.  Feel better and I’ll talk to you again as soon as I can.  I love you.”

“I love you too, kid.  Knock ‘em dead.”

“I always do.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Boyd.  Can we talk for a minute?”

“What do you want, Stilinski?” the man says, pulling his earbuds out.

“I know we’re supposed to be doing duets this week, and I wanted to see if you were interested in teaming up,” Stiles says, flopping down on the couch.

“Are you kidding?” he says, pulling away from Stiles’ flailing limbs like he’d rather be anywhere else.  “They changed the rules this morning. We don’t get to pick our duet partners anymore. They’re assigning us someone from another team.”

“What?” Stiles asks, shoulders drooping.  “That’s completely unfair!”

“It’s supposed to be unfair.  This whole thing is rigged.”

“What are you talking about?”  If Stiles’ strategy takes one more hit he might just have to throw the whole thing out like Peter suggested.

“I got paired with fucking Isaac.  Do I look like I sing country music?”

“...no,” Stiles replies, not wanting to offend the man.  His biceps are the size of Stiles’ head.

“It’s all a bunch of fucking politics.  I’m going to be singing Beyoncé till the day I die.  You know they keep pushing the gospel angle with me? I asked to sing something by Childish Gambino or Frank Ocean and the producers said they ‘couldn’t get the rights.’  Didn’t want me singing anything too black is more likely.”

“What?  That’s totally fucked up.”

“I know,” Boyd says with a sigh.  “Erica has been fighting for me, but there’s only so much she can do.  I even offered to change the ‘problematic language.’”

“At least you got Isaac and not someone worse,” Stiles says, trying to sympathize.  “Did you hear Malia do _Gunpowder and Lead_?  What a fucking overplayed trainwreck.”

“Yeah, she was like a quarter step sharp the whole time, and apparently she was singing it like right at Peter Hale.  I think they had to call security. She looked like she wanted to eat him. Not that she didn’t deserve to get kicked off...”

“No shit?”

“No shit.  Her canines are like… unusually pointy.”

“And Theo is going to be tough to beat.  He did the sweet tortured soul routine with _Lost Boy_ and the girls loved it.”

“Gross,” Boyd says.  “That guy is such a tool.”

“Do you know what you’re singing with Isaac?”

“I don’t know, but it better be good.  At least he nailed it last week after his AA sponsor died.  I don’t trust him, but even I have to admit that cover of _Hear You Me_ was fucking heartbreaking.”

”Do you know who I got?” Stiles asks tentatively.  If he has to work with Theo, he might need to kill someone.

“Kira, you lucky son of a bitch.”

“Oh thank God,” Stiles says, letting out a dark chuckle.

“Theo got Jackson, so they’re probably safe.  I’m not sure about the girls though. Tracey and Heather probably aren’t long for this world.”

Stiles hates to agree, but he does.  Thank fuck he got paired with Hawaii’s darling otherwise he’d be up shit creek without a paddle.  If one person in your duo fucks up, you both get kicked off.

“I have an idea,” he begins, leaning in and speaking low.  If they get picked up by a hidden mic somewhere, it’s game over.

“Back the fuck away from me and maybe I’ll consider it,” Boyd says, pushing Stiles’ shoulders until there are two feet separating them.

“Fine, yeesh, lay off the toxic masculinity there, buddy.”

“You’ve got thirty seconds and then these headphones are going back in,” Boyd says, holding up his earbuds.  

“I think we should make an alliance,” Stiles says, eyes narrowed.

“What is this, fucking Survivor?”

“It’s a goddamn reality show and you know it, just bear with me—”

“—I’m counting… twenty-six, twenty-five…”

“Alright, alright, I’m just saying,” Stiles says, talking as fast as he can.  “Only one person from each team can make it to the finale and we both know that Kira is in, probably Isaac too.  We just need to knock out Theo from your team and Jackson from mine and then it’s a clear shot for either of us to win.”

“How the fuck do you think we’re going to manage that together?  We don’t have a lot of leeway here. There’s only one duet round.”

“Subterfuge, my friend.  Subterfuge,” Stiles says, eyes glinting.

“We’re not friends,” Boyd says sharply.

“No, absolutely not.  Wouldn’t dream of it. Now do we have a deal?” he asks, holding his fist out.

“You better know what you’re fucking doing, Stilinski,” Boyd says, rolling his eyes as he bumps his fist into Stiles’.

“I’ll come up with something.  Don’t worry. Lydia and I got this.”

“Whatever…” Boyd says, picking up his iPhone.  “Just tell me later. I’ve got to listen to this playlist and pick the least sucky song for me and Isaac to do.”

“You’re gonna do great, big guy,” Stiles says, hopping up from the couch.  

“Don’t call me big guy.”

“You got it, stud muffin.”

 

* * *

 

 “That was adorable, guys!” Allison gushes as soon as she steps onto the stage.  “You two make an amazing pair! I think America would love it if you teamed up and made a record.  You could call yourselves Stira!”

“Thanks, Allison!  It was really fun working with Stiles,” Kira says, clutching her ukulele.

“Is there anything you can’t play, Stiles?” Allison asks, gesturing to the upright bass that he’s balancing in his right hand.

“Oh, this?” he asks, twirling the instrument.  “I just picked this up a few days ago, but I think I got the hang of it pretty quick.”

“You really did!  That’s incredible!” Allison says, grinning from ear to ear.  “Now, let’s hear from the coaches! Morrell, how did you like the performance?”

The woman doesn’t say anything for a full ten seconds, just lets the camera focus on her killer outfit, which is a giant wearable black rectangle, as far as Stiles can tell.  The crowd goes quiet, anticipating her words.

“Kira is like petals falling to the pond.  Stiles, the lowly rhinoceros bending for a drink.”

A few people clap and several scream, but for the most part, the audience has even less of an idea what to do with that than the host does.

“Right…” Allison says.  “Of course. And you, Peter?” she asks, turning to him.  “How do you think Stiles did?”

“He continues to surprise me.  Stiles is not one to be underestimated.  He seems to… transcend genre,” Peter says softly, a knowing smirk on his lips.  

“Do you know what kind of music you’d like to make in the future, Stiles?” Allison asks before her father can cut in with his now-traditional unflattering comment.  

“I don’t think anyone should put themselves in a box like that,” Stiles says, tearing his eyes away from Peter’s bare chest to look at Allison.  “Some people find a lane and like to stick to it, but I don’t see it like that. People evolve and grow. I just want to make great music,” he says, eyes flicking back to Peter because he just needs to see the man’s reaction.  “If the music is good… If it makes you stop and listen… if it makes you feel something… that’s all that really matters to me.”

“That’s all well and good, Stiles,” Argent sneers, “but I think you might be too idealistic.  The music industry doesn’t work like that. The world doesn’t work like that. People want to know who you are.  They need to see the whole package or they won’t sign you.”

“And just how many packages have you seen lately, Christopher?” Peter asks, drawing a cackle from Erica and hollering from everyone else.  “A little birdie tells me there’s one, in particular, that’s caught your eye lately.”

“You’re one to talk,” Argent says, reaching for his giant Starbucks cup which Stiles knows contains flat ginger ale and nothing else.  Over the past few weeks, it’s become clear to him that Chris and Peter both take their sobriety very seriously. “Why don’t you cover yourself up.  You’re scaring the kids at home,” he says, gesturing to his own denim-covered chest.

“The ladies like to breathe, you know this, Christopher,” Peter says, pulling down on the black cashmere cardigan he’s wearing as a shirt until his navel is revealed.  “Or is your memory that bad?”

“I’m blocking it out, actually,” he says with a put-upon sigh.  “I’m just trying to save the younger generation from making the same mistakes.  You stay away from this fucker if you know what’s good for you,” he says, pointing at Stiles.

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not sleeping with him!” Stiles says, rolling his whole head.  “Maybe we should, you know, let Kira get her chat time in here, huh fellas?”

“The gentleman doth protest too much,” Erica says, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs in a very deliberate move to turn toward Peter and Chris.  “One of you better start dishing quick or they’re going to cut to commercial.”

“I hate everyone in this bar,” Stiles says, hanging his head.

“We must let the music speak,” Morrell says, facing straight ahead.  “Such folly is for the children.”

“Dirty sex is for children now, Morrell?  Is that what you’re saying? Because that’s what I’m hearing,” Erica says, leaning over the arm of her chair and tossing her head back to look at the woman upside down.

“And we have to take a break!” Allison shouts into her microphone.  “Next up is Theo and Jackson with _Jealous_ and then we’ll close the night with Isaac and Boyd and their version of _Shadow of the Day_ , so don’t go away.  We’ll be right back!”

“CUT!”


	5. Chapter 5

“Hello, beautiful,” Peter says, floating into the studio where Stiles and the band are waiting for him.

“Hi, Peter,” Stiles says, accepting kisses on both of his cheeks and a few seconds of forehead contact during which he feels like his chest might explode.  

Not only does Peter smell amazing again, but he’s wearing leather gloves that feel like heaven against Stiles’ bare forearms and his eyes are such a piercing blue that Stiles can’t bring himself to look away.

“What do you have for me this week?” Peter asks, sitting down on his customary stool and slowly peeling off his traveling gloves—not driving gloves.  

Stiles is under no illusion that Peter drives himself anywhere.

“It’s Retro Week,” Stiles begins, finding it easier and easier to ignore the cameras in favor of looking at Peter slowly peel off his outer layers.  “So we had to choose a throwback… something that could be considered a classic.”

“I’m listening,” Peter says easily, taking off his sunglasses and sliding them into the vee of his unbuttoned silk shirt.  He’s in all black today, but a variety of fabrics that make Stiles itch to reach out and feel the textures. The pants are leather like the gloves, but his coat is some sort of coarse fur.  Stiles can’t stop imagining what it would feel like to slide his hand between the silk and the coat, to wrap his hand around Peter’s back and press himself against that bare chest.

But Peter is waiting for him to speak and Stiles has absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to say.  

“I—uh—” he stutters, mouth flapping open and closed with a repetitive popping noise.

“You’re supposed to tell the cameras what song you chose to sing this week, darling,” Peter says, eyes narrowing as he steps forward in those glitter-covered loafers again to take Stiles’ face into his hands.  “Are you sure you’re alright? You look a little pale. Can we take ten?” Peter asks the room at large. The band and the crew call their assent and start to disperse and soon enough, Stiles is alone again with Peter Hale.

”I don’t like seeing my little songbird upset,” he says, leading Stiles over to a corner where there’s a couch to sit on.  “Would you like to talk to me about it?”

“I—” Stiles really doesn’t know what to say.  

How do you tell an international celebrity that you’re harboring a stupid crush on them and every time you talk you’re afraid it’s going to come out in your _hiding a boner_ voice?  How do you explain to someone that their masculine scent and calloused fingertips have you weak in the knees and it’s embarrassing because you’re supposed to be focusing on singing and getting your father out of the hospital, not your raging libido?

“Is it stage fright?” Peter asks, hunting around the problem.  “Nausea? Can I get some ginger tea over here?” he calls loudly, assuming someone will hear his request.

“I’m fine,” Stiles manages, swallowing hard when Peter takes his hands again.  They’re just so confusing—rough on the tips but soft everywhere else and perfectly manicured with black glitter nail polish.  Stiles’ mind short-circuits for a few moments as he imagines those fingers doing all sorts of things to him.

“Oh, I see,” Peter says as he trails a circle over Stiles’ palm with one fingertip.  “It’s me that has you nervous.”

“I’m not—I don’t—” Stiles babbles, pulling his hands away quickly.

“It’s more than alright, darling,” Peter hums, ducking his head to speak into Stiles’ ear, making everything that’s said afterward feel like their little secret.  “I like you, Stiles.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide but he shakes it off after just a few seconds of disbelief.  “I bet you say that to all the boys…” he says with a rueful smile.

“You’d be surprised,” Peter says, scratching at his stubble with too-short nails, all the better to play the guitar with.

“Would I?” Stiles says, unable to help himself.  Everything about Peter Hale draws him in. If there’s even the slightest chink in the armor, Stiles wants to know more, to pick at it until there’s a hole big enough to get to the man’s heart.  If there are threads to unwravel, Stiles wants to be the one to do it.

“Would it surprise you to know that I haven’t been with anyone in the last five years?”

“It would,” Stiles says as gently and evenly as possible.  They’re sitting so close together, hands still piled together on top of Peter’s fur coat, which Stiles now believes to be bear or maybe wolf.  Every breath Peter takes, Stiles can feel somewhere, whether it be the rise and fall of the man’s hands or the light puff of air on his cheek. “You know you kind of have a reputation for the exact opposite.”

“I’m well aware,” Peter says, with a dark laugh.  “But it’s all too easy to believe the hype. No one really knows me at all.  Not since Christopher. Not since I alienated everyone else in my life through my own bad behavior.”

“You sound like you’ve been to therapy,” Stiles says.  It’s only been a few minutes and he’s already starting to see Peter in a whole new light.  

He squashes that thought down hard.  

Peter Hale is not someone you give the benefit of the doubt.  If Stiles gives him an opening, he’s sure to abuse it.

“Therapy is kind of mandatory when you go to rehab,” Peter says with a genuine, self-deprecating smile.  “But it’s good for you… good for the soul. Music is a certain kind of therapy too, isn’t it?”

“It has been for me,” Stiles says, nodding as Peter squeezes his fingers.  

“That’s what I love about you, Stiles.  You’re young, but you’ve aged… if you know what I mean,” Peter says, running a thumb across the inside of Stiles’ wrist.  “There’s a lot of pain in these veins. I can feel it when you sing… when you play. Not all scars are visible, but sometimes I think they’re audible.  When you make music, I hear them.”

“I know what you mean,” Stiles says softly, wetting his lips.  He thinks back to all those nights he spent in the garage, wailing on his violin, banging on his pre-owned Casio keyboard so hard he knocked it off the stand more than once.  

Stiles thinks about the first time he listened to the Alphas’ Red Album as a child and how it made him feel—how it feels to be looking at Peter’s crystal blue eyes right now, and how if he met that kid now he might not recognize him.  

“You really do, don’t you?” Peter says, a sweet smile gracing his lips.  

Stiles inhales sharply as Peter fucking Hale leans in, lips just barely brushing his before someone knocks on the glass wall of the studio.  They leap apart and Stiles has a quick moment to register that the woman is holding a cup of ginger tea for him before he buries his face in his hands, cheeks heating in embarrassment.

He almost kissed Peter Hale.  

Peter.  

The more Stiles mentally refers to him by just Peter, the more real he seems.  But making out with Peter, as mind-blowing as it might be, isn’t going to win him that prize money.  So Stiles jumps off the couch and shakes it off. He accepts the cup of tea and drinks it all in one go, even though it burns on the way down.  

Peter laughs and floats over to his stool, but Stiles corrects himself before things get out of hand.  This is Peter Hale, legendary frontman of the Alphas, sex icon. He is not Peter, the beautiful, deep, soulful man who nearly kissed him just two minutes ago.  Peter Hale is not someone you bring home to your father.

Peter Hale is not someone you kiss without regretting it.  Peter Hale is not someone you fuck without consequences.

Peter Hale is not someone you fall for.

Eyes on the prize, Stilinski.  It’s time to make some epic fucking music.

”So,” Peter says as soon as the cameras are rolling again.  “What does my sweet little songbird have for us this week?”

“ _I Put a Spell on You_.”

“You certainly have.  Haven’t you, darling?” Peter says, flashing his brilliant white teeth in a wide smile.

Stiles doesn’t take the bait.  He gives a curt little nod and turns toward the band.  He’s not going to do another forgettable cover of this song.  It’s been sung a million times in a million different ways, but Stiles is going to make his different.  So different, in fact, that it might not even resemble the same song.

“Derek?” he says, getting the lead guitarist’s attention.  “I want to change this up.”

“I’m listening…” the man says, keeping his mesmerizing green eyes on Stiles while simultaneously turning his amp up.   

“You sound just like Peter.  What are you, related?”

“Yeah.  He’s my uncle,” the man says, and Stiles honestly isn’t sure if he’s being sarcastic or not.  Why are sassy beautiful people so hard to read?

“For serious?” he asks, looking between the two men several times.  

“Who do you think taught him to play that guitar, darling?” Peter chimes in, raising his eyebrows.

“As you never tire of pointing out,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.  “And Cora is my sister,” he adds, nodding his head behind him toward the drummer.  

“Nepotism makes the world go ‘round,” she says idly, like it’s been a joke for years.  The way she’s snapping her gum and twirling her sticks makes Stiles rethink the joke he was going to make about inbreeding.

“Just tell me what you wanted us to do, Stiles,” Derek says, impatiently playing a silent riff with his left hand.

“That’s just it.  I don’t want you to do anything,” Stiles says.

“You want to do the whole song yourself?  Be my fucking guest,” Derek says, clicking the off button on his amp and folding his arm across his ridiculously large chest.  

 _Jesus, the genes in this family are absurd_ , Stiles thinks as his focus is drawn to Cora who is flipping her hair and rolling her eyes again.

“That’s not what I said.  I know you guys can play the fuck out of this song.  No one is going to argue with that,” Stiles says, holding his hands up in defense.  “I just want to keep things really simple. A straight beat on everything. The piano, the drums, the bass, the brass section, everything.  Just play around a little bit one at a time in the beginning and then let me sing the shit out of it. If I point at you, do something completely fucking crazy.  Okay? Like really let me hear your best. Got it?”

“You cocky little bastard,” Cora says, banging down hard on her cymbal and kicking her bass drum at the same time.  

“I know, I know, you hate all of us singers just coming in here and taking the spotlight.  I get it,” Stiles says, tapping his pencil against the top of his music stand as his volume builds.  “But you’ve got jobs here, and I don’t. I need this job,” he says, biting down hard on his lower lip before speaking again.  “It’s kind of life or death. Or at least livelihood or death. Just let me have this, okay? I’ve got a family to support just the same as anyone.”

“Alright, alright, don’t give us the sob story again, we’ve heard it already,” Derek says, flipping his amp back on.  “Just count it out and we’ll do the rest.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says, clasping his hands together in triumph.  “I’m gonna take this thing kind of low. Let’s do it in B, okay?”

“Oh sure, why don’t we just do it in C sharp minor, you asshole,” Derek says, pulling his fingers back to loosen up his wrist.

“Peter, can’t you like tell their mom on them or something,” Stiles whirls around to whine into his coach’s face.  

“I’d have to bring her back from the dead first,” Peter says, and again, Stiles can’t be sure if he’s joking or not.  The sarcasm is strong in this family.

“God, you are a complete dipshit, aren’t you?” Cora says, shaking her head.  “Heat the knife up before you twist it next time."

“I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s fine, darling.  You didn’t know,” Peter says clearly, though Stiles can see that he’s hurt him deeply by bringing up memories that have long since been buried.

“I really—” Stiles tries again, only to be cut off once more.

“—Just sing the song, Stiles,” Derek says gruffly, playing an arpeggio in B, just like Stiles wanted.  

“Okay,” he says, swallowing roughly.  “Okay, one, two, three, four,” he counts before pointing at Jennifer and Derek at the same time.  Stiles can’t believe that he lives in a world where he gets to sing for Peter fucking Hale and even direct musicians like the former keyboard player of the Alphas, Jennifer fucking Blake, but he’s doing it.  

By the time they’re done fine-tuning the number, they’ve been there two hours and it looks like Danny, the leader of the brass section, is about to pass out, he’s been playing so hard.

“I think that’s a wrap.  Thank you, everyone!” Peter calls, sliding off his stool with far too much grace considering he’s had to remove his gigantic coat and has still been sweating in his leather pants for several hours now.

“Might I offer one suggestion?” he asks as soon as the band has filed out.  

“I suppose,” Stiles says with a small smile.  He is absolutely not flirting. “Your parting suggestion seemed to work out pretty well for me last time.  So I guess I’m open to a little creative input. Or maybe I should go ask Morrell,” he adds as Peter floats toward him.  “You know she has two more Grammys than you do.

”They didn’t give out Grammys for my kind of music when I was still recording and you know it,” Peter teases.  “Talk to me when your pal Morrell is in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”

“Point taken,” Stiles admits with a smirk.  “What’s your suggestion?”

They’re close now, close enough for Stiles to feel the heat of Peter’s body.  If Stiles wanted to touch, all he’d have to do is reach out and pinch the silk hem of his shirt with two fingers, trail them up the edge of the placket just two buttons until he found Peter’s exposed navel.  It’d be so easy…

“You know how directors say, ‘make love to the camera?’” Peter asks, eyes trailing down the front of Stiles’ grey tee shirt to the pulled thread on the front of his old jeans.

“Yeah…” Stiles says, fairly sure he’s not going to have to do the reaching after all.  

Peter is already looking at him, head tilted just so, appraising.  And then just like that, the man takes a step back and looks some more, really looks at Stiles, a slow steady trail all the way from the top of his messy hair to the soles of his beat up Chucks and back up.  

“You’re going to make love to the camera, songbird, I have no doubts about that,” Peter says, tilting his head the other way and then holding up his two hands like a frame in front of Stiles’ face.  “No, you’ve never had trouble on that front, but they’re going to try to give you an EV Raven mic for this song—turn it down. Tell them you want the Shure 55SH.”

“Okay…” Stiles says, spinning around in a circle on one shoe as Peter starts to circle him like a vulture going in for the kill.  “That’s the Elvis microphone, right?”

“Yes, clever boy,” Peter says softly, taking Stiles by the shoulders and forcing him to stand still.  “That’s exactly right, darling. You’re going to need one of those and—” he says, walking behind Stiles to look at…

Stiles has to assume it’s his ass, but then Peter ducks down and pulls at the leg of his pants.  He isn’t sure what Peter thinks he’s doing, but it’s really not possible for a person to unbunch skinny jeans and Stiles might just have a heart attack if Peter Hale is the first man in the universe to give it a try.

“And what?” Stiles asks, peering over his shoulder to find Peter’s head level with his ass.  

“Hmm?” Peter asks, looking up at him.  “You’re going to need a suit. Black, bow tie… undone, open shirt, straight leg with perfect creases.  I’ll call my tailor, have him put you in something nice.”

“Peter, I—”  

“—You’ve got legs for days… you might be a 38, maybe even a 39….”

“—Peter,” Stiles says, spinning around to get a better look.  He’s still crouched down on the floor, leather pants straining, fingers down in a wide spread for balance.

“No, Stiles,” he says, springing back up to standing.  “This is important so listen carefully.” He takes a moment to rearrange the front of his shirt to his liking, making sure his chest is properly displayed before speaking again.  “The pants are going to be tight in the thighs. These are not pants for sitting, okay? Standing only. I’ll get you a second pair to practice in because if you fuck around, you will rip the seat of them, they’re going to be that tight.”

“What?”

“And have that friend of yours—Lydia—have her pick out a decent pair of shoes.  Something classic, not too flashy. Patent leather, I think.”

“Oh, so you’re against flashy shoes now?” Stiles says with a laugh.

“This is Retro Night, Stiles.  They’re going all out.  Each of us has our own number and there’s some sort of opening medley.  I’ll have something timeless on as well, don’t you worry,” Peter says, eyebrows wagging. “And I’m going to get you a decent watch.  Everyone is going to be looking at your hands, you’re going to need something nice there for when your cuffs ride up.”

“Hold on.  Back it up,” Stiles says, trying to wrap his head around everything Peter has said in the last few minutes.  “What are you talking about? I know that run at the end was still a little rough, but I kind of liked it like that.  What else do I need to practice?”

“Oh, darling,” Peter says, sauntering backward.  He pulls his sunglasses out of his hair and settles them on his nose.  “My sweet, sweet little songbird. You have no idea what you look like, do you?”

“I—” Stiles starts, swallowing roughly.

“You’re too precious for words, beautiful,” Peter says, slipping his fur coat back on before stepping into Stiles’ personal space.

“I’m really not,” Stiles says.  He already has plans to take Jackson out of the running, he’s just fine tuning things with Lydia and then he’ll have a clear shot to the finale.  He’s not precious, he’s evil. If Jackson wasn’t such a douche, he might even feel a little bad about it.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Peter asks, taking his leather gloves off the piano and slowly inching them down his thick fingers.  

“You’re not just going to make love to the camera, Stiles.  That would be too easy. Any idiot with a selfie stick can do it these days.  You’ve got something much more difficult to rehearse.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” Stiles asks, eyes narrowing.

Peter turns to leave and Stiles is just about to open his mouth to call after him when he turns back, looking over one fur-covered shoulder to say, “You’re going to fuck the microphone.”

 

* * *

 

“Stiles!” Boyd calls, hustling over to his makeup chair.  “Did you see the replay of Theo and Jackson doing _Jealous_?  We’re completely fucked.”

“I saw,” Stiles says.  He takes a moment to thank the makeup artist before she leaves and then keeps talking.  “I had to hear Lydia cackle about it on the phone for an hour last night. I don’t know why I’m surprised.  Of course, they both took their shirts off.”

“It wasn’t so much that they were naked but more… the way they were singing it to each other.  And the touching. There was a lot of heated eye contact. It was several steps above a homoerotic volleyball montage.  The fangirls went absolutely crazy,” Boyd says.

“I can’t believe you’re making references to 80s movies right now.  Who are you?” Stiles says with a grin. “My little stud muffin, all grown up.  I’m going to need a hug for that one.”

“I’m not hugging you, Stilinski.”

“You’re going to do it one day, of your own volition even, and it’s going to be epic,” Stiles assures him.  “Your giant teddy bear arms probably give the best hugs.”

“Whatever,” Boyd says, rolling his eyes.  “Just tell me the plan.”

“Okay, so I made friends with the band last week, and they agreed to help take the Property Brothers down.”

“If you’re going to call anyone the Property Brothers, it should be Ethan and Aiden.  They’re actually twins, but go on.”

“Derek and Cora are Peter’s niece and nephew and Jennifer Blake and Braeden the bassist were not difficult to convince.  I think they like used to be in a biker gang or something. Paige and Danny didn’t really want to get involved directly but they didn’t want to get in the way either, so Operation Clogged Douchenozzle is a go.”

“What are you going to do?” Boyd asks, looking around to make sure they’re still alone and the door is still closed.  They haven’t been wired up yet so they should be safe.

“Well we’ve got two options and I’ll let you choose what you’d like for Theo,” Stiles says, wagging his eyebrows.  “Would you like option 1: mic cuts in and out or option 2: band fucks with the key?”

“I’ll take band fucks with the key,” Boyd says, holding out his hand for Stiles to shake.  “The mic thing… they might feel bad for him, that wouldn’t look like his fault.”

“Maybe, but I think it’s going to work,” Stiles says, shaking Boyd’s hand.  “You only get 90 seconds, and once you get knocked off your game it’s hard to get back on track.  I’m not worried.”

“You’re alright, Stilinski,” Boyd says, considering.  “I’ll tell you what. If I win, I’ll give you a cut of the prize money.”

“I can’t ask you that.  Because I don’t think I can offer the same,” Stiles says, shaking his head.  “If we both get to the finale, may the best man win, okay?”

“Deal,” Boyd says, flashing those pearly whites at him.  

“Friends?” Stiles says, holding out his arms.

“Don’t push it,” Boyd says, standing to exit the room.

 

* * *

In some sort of sick decision to turn Hit Single into a free-for-all spectator sport, the production staff erects theatre boxes for the contestants to sit and watch each other’s performances.  Stiles sits there with a few other contestants for the big opening number, which is a ridiculous bastardization of Gershwin classics.

As far as Stiles is concerned, there are some things that you just don’t mess with, and Chris Argent’s take on _I’ve Got Rhythm_ was just an affront to humanity.  Thankfully, Morrell does something interesting over it toward the end and it becomes marginally tolerable.

When they’re finished, the coaches sit at two small round tables instead of their giant chairs.  The lights go black and when they come back up everything has a soft glow of Edison bulbs in a giant grid that flashes and spell words depending on the performance.  Between that and the retro outfits they’ve put every member of the band and crew in, the effect is pretty brilliant.

Stiles is transported to a speakeasy.  They even have smoke machines going at random intervals to imitate the dense cigarette cloud of yesteryear.  

Isaac opens the competition portion of the show with a country version of _Let’s Get Away From it All_.  Stiles is convinced the clever lyric changes have just landed him a spot in the finale even though there are still two episodes left until then.  Anyone who can transform a Frank Sinatra standard into an All-American road trip number complete with trailer park references deserves it.

Erica gets a full set change for her number—the most pornographic cover of _Fever_ Stiles has ever heard.  She’s dripping in red sequins, a floor length gown with a high slit and even lower neckline.  It’s backless and she spends a lot of time draping herself over the piano and fondling the pianist while stealing quick, sultry glances backstage.  Stiles is sure there’s a story there, but he doesn’t have time to think on that one too much because next up is Boyd.

He knocks it out of the park.

If anyone could do _L-O-V-E_ better than Nat King Cole himself, it’s Vernon Boyd.  They put him in a checkered suit and hat and sit him behind the piano.  He plays to the crowd so well they’re all clapping and singing along within the first thirty seconds.  By the time he’s standing up and really giving the old ivory a workout, the coaches are already on their feet.  

Boyd just brought the house down.

Next up is an interlude by none other than Peter Hale.  In the opening number, he looked bored. Even his wild outfit—an old man cardigan, lavender tie over a bare chest, and slim cut khaki pants—couldn’t hide the fact that he would rather be anywhere else.  

At this point in their relationship, Stiles can tell when Peter has been given no creative input and is just being ordered around.  Being told where to stand and exactly what notes to sing, being asked to harmonize and blend with singers he believes are beneath him, not being offered a chance to play the guitar… it’s obviously torture for the man.

Now, Peter has changed out of his deranged Mister Rogers get up and has put on some strange imitation of a Franki Valli suit for his cover of _Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You_.  

Stiles blinks several times, convinced it must be a trick of the light, but it’s not.  Instead of the trademark red suit Valli used to wear, Peter has one made entirely out of buffalo plaid.  A chuckle escapes Stiles’ lips as the intro starts to play. He can’t help feeling that the choice of fabric is some sort of nod to him.

When Danny leads the horns in, a team of backup dancers appears seemingly out of nowhere and the crowd goes berserk.  Peter brings the wireless mic to his mouth and shoots the crowd a smile that somehow seems to point directly to Stiles and begins to sing.

 

“You’re just too good to be true

Can’t take my eyes off of you

You’d be like heaven to touch

I want to hold you so much

 

At long last love has arrived

And I thank God I’m alive

You’re just too good to be true

Can’t take my eyes off of you”  

 

 _This is just not fair at all_ , Stiles thinks as Peter grapevines across the stage, ankle bones exposed by his cropped pants like some sort of regency era tease.  It should be nothing compared to the open neckline of his white button down, which, at only two buttons undone is downright prudish compared to usual, but watching the tendon in Peter’s ankle move and roll as he flits over the stage in his suede loafers is doing something to Stiles.

As he sings the second verse, he actually turns to the right corner and purposefully stares at the contestants’ box.

 

“Pardon the way that I stare

There's nothing else to compare

The sight of you leaves me weak

There are no words left to speak

 

But if you feel like I feel

Please let me know that is real

You're just too good to be true

I can't take my eyes off you”

 

This cannot be happening.  The crowd is whistling and Peter Hale is blatantly singing him a love song.  He’s never going to live this down. The conversation with his father alone is going to be the death of him.

And the dancing!  There are complicated looking ball changes and twirls, not to mention the high kicks and the gyrating.  Peter must have been rehearsing for a week to get his movements so perfectly synced with the dancers. He had to have planned this long ago, before Stiles even started rehearsing his number.  That bastard!

 

“I love you baby

And if it's quite alright

I need you baby

To warm the lonely nights

I love you baby

Trust in me when I say

 

Oh pretty baby

Don't bring me down I pray

Oh pretty baby

Now that I've found you stay

And let me love you, baby

Let me love you”

 

“Is it just me,” Isaac says, leaning in to yell in Stiles’ ear.  “Or does it actually look like Peter Hale is in love with you?”

“It’s not just you,” Kira says, smiling as she claps along when Peter starts to repeat the chorus.  “It’s so sweet! Do you think you’re going to stay together after the show ends?”

“We’re not together now!” Stiles says for what must be the hundredth time.  “I repeat. We. Are. Not. Dating!”

“Of course you aren’t,” Isaac says, undoing his scarf to let it fall free.  “Household name celebrities profess their undying love through song to scrawny small-town boys all the time.  This is just another day. Nothing to see here,” he adds, gesturing wildly at the stage where Peter has just executed a perfect drop split and winked into camera four, which just so happens to be behind Stiles’ head.

“It’s an act!” Jackson shouts grumpily over the music as the band starts up the last chorus.  “No one is in love with Stiles! He’s a shitty singer with daddy issues!” he screams during an orchestra break.  

The crowd begins to boo, and it becomes all too clear that Jackson, who is due to sing next, has his wireless mic turned on for his pre-performance interview.

 

“And let me love you, baby

Let me love you”

 

Peter finishes up the song, shooting daggers up into the box as Jackson quickly tries to backtrack.  “I didn’t mean—he’s—someone fucked with my microphone!” he screams, but the crowd has already made up his mind.  Jackson leaves the box, darting through the curtain to ready himself for his number amid boos and shouted profanity.  

Peter, however, takes the opportunity to wave at Stiles and blow a kiss.  The audience switches quickly from boos to cheers and wolf whistles. Taking a cue from either someone yelling in his ear or just his own volition, Peter speaks into his microphone, “Since I was so rudely interrupted.  How about we try this one more time?” He strikes up the band again and does the chorus all over again, this time with an impromptu slide across the stage on his plaid-covered knees, again, singing his heart out into camera four.

“Oh my God,” Stiles groans, slumping down in his chair and hiding his face in his hands.  If he weren’t so embarrassed he’d be hard in his pants imagining the sandpaper scratch of that sinfully groomed goatee on his inner thigh.  “This is ridiculous!”

“I’m not sure you’re going to need that plan at all, Stilinski,” Boyd says, entering the box and waving at the crowd amidst renewed cheers.  His performance was a fan-favorite and if all goes well, he’ll be riding it to a slot in the finale. “Jackson just became a pariah.”

“Just call it insurance,” Stiles mutters under his breath as Boyd takes the seat next to him and Peter finally clears off the stage to make way for Jackson’s version of Bobby Darin’s _Beyond the Sea_.

He makes it through the first verse before people start booing intermittently, but by the chorus, his mic has inexplicably stopped working and the band fizzles out in confusion while he frantically tries to get a replacement from the stage manager.  

Stiles tries not to laugh, he really does, but karma's a bitch and Jackson is finally getting what he deserves.  In contrast, Boyd doesn’t even try to hide his pleasure. He laughs long and hard and hoots and hollers right along with the crowd until Jackson finally gets a new microphone and begins talking over the band’s attempt to revive the song.

“Fuck this,” he growls into the wireless mic.  “Fuck all of you and fuck this shit. This show is obviously rigged.  I’m done playing this stupid game for all of you sick fucks out there.  I came here for one reason, and one reason only,” he says, tears welling up in his wild eyes.  

“Oh fuck,” Stiles says, hands coming up to cover his mouth in surprise.

“Is this going where I think it’s going?” Isaac laughs from somewhere behind him.

“I think it is…” Boyd mutters in disbelief.

“To meet my father,” Jackson says, gesturing forward to where Peter is now seated next to Erica.  “Peter Hale.”

“Oh fuck no!” Erica screeches, looking repeatedly between the two men.  “This is just too good!” she hollers, bouncing up and down in her seat.

“Who is your mother, Jackson?” Peter asks, eyes narrowed and head tilted to the side.  The crowd’s jeering falls to silence as soon as Peter opens his mouth. They might as well be at a live studio taping of One Life to Live.

“I can’t believe it,” Isaac says, leaning forward to lean on the back of Stiles’ seat.  “He’s actually going to give him a chance to prove it.”

“Margaret Miller,” Jackson says immediately.  “Though I think you knew her as Avery Willow Fairchild.”

“I did know her, yes,” Peter says, standing to walk on stage and look at Jackson in a new light.  “I knew her very well.”

“Biblically, you mean!” Chris Argent calls from his seat next to Morrell.

“Hush,” Peter says simply, and the whole room goes eerily quiet at his request.  “We will work this out, alright?” he says, cupping Jackson’s chin and lifting his face to look at him.  “I promise you. Everything will be alright.”

“Thank you,” Jackson says, bursting into tears and throwing himself at Peter.

“Hush now, it’s okay,” Peter mutters, but it gets picked up by his microphone anyway.  “I had a feeling this was coming. Let’s get you off stage and settled. I’ll call my lawyer and my doctor, okay?”

“Okay,” Jackson says, pulling back to wipe furiously at his face.  

“Did that seriously just happen?” Stiles asks rhetorically, inching to the edge of his seat to look down at the way Peter carefully guides Jackson stage right and through the studio door.

“I think you just got yourself a step-son, Stilinski,” Boyd teases.

“Huh,” Kira says.  “I kind of thought Jackson had a thing for him.  I guess I was wrong.”

“I thought Peter kind of had a thing for Jackson, honestly,” Stiles says, still trying to wrap his head around the idea of Peter having a new, fully grown child.

“Maybe he did,” Isaac points out, unhelpfully.  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s not one girl on Peter’s team.  It’s all ridiculously attractive men; Jackson, Brett, Jordan… and then there’s you,” he says, that annoyingly cherubic smile back on his face.

“Fuck off, Isaac,” Stiles mutters.  

“I’m just sayin’,” he says, tossing his head to the side and rearranging his curls.  

“Well, don’t!” Kira says, laying a hand on Stiles’ forearm.  “It’s just Mason next and then you. You better go get ready.”

“Thanks, Kira,” he says, shaking off Isaac’s words.  

“You’re welcome!” she says, clapping her hands together.  “Now go break a leg!”

“More like my dick.  It’s hell changing into those pants.”

“You got this,” Boyd says, offering his fist for Stiles to bump.

“Thanks, big guy,” he says, touched by the gesture.

“What did I say about that?” Boyd says, pulling his hand back.  

“Sorry,” Stiles says with a smile, stepping partway through the curtain before doubling back.  “Thanks, stud muffin!”

 

* * *

 

 “I put a spell on you

Because you’re mine”

 

Stiles begins slowly, humming low in his throat and letting Derek and Jennifer take the lead.  They fiddle around, already smiling at him, excited to get to the good stuff.

 

“You better stop the things that you do

Oh, child ‘cause I ain’t lying”

 

“I put…” Stiles drags out, cupping the microphone like it’s a lover’s head waiting for a kiss.  He waits and waits, building the anticipation until the strong beat comes in from Danny and the brass section and Cora on the drums.  

 

“... a spell on you

Because you're mine

Oh, you better stop the things you do

‘cause I’m telling you I ain’t lying”

 

He lets the microphone stand go and catches it with his foot.  When the crowd goes insane, Stiles plays it cool, shrugging his shoulders and doing a body roll.

Peter was right.  It took him several days of practice to perfect the movements, especially the twirl and slide he does before his second catch, but it goes off without a hitch and the crowd loves it.

 

“Ain’t gonna take none of your fooling around

And I don’t wanna hear you put me down

I put a spell on you

Because you're mine”

 

He’s practiced this a thousand times and Lydia has assured him that it looks sexy, but Stiles can’t stop thinking that he’s doing a piss poor imitation of David Copperfield whenever he opens his hands and caresses the microphone with his palms while staring right down the line into camera two.  

It is imperative that he stares into camera two because if he doesn’t, if he lets himself slip out of his routine for just one second, he’ll end up staring at Peter.  He’s already back in his seat next to Erica, swirling amber liquid in a lowball glass, staring at Stiles so hard he feels like a mirror about to crack under the pressure.

Stiles knows it isn’t liquor, but the aesthetics of the thick, almost oily drink slipping over the ice cubes as Peter tilts the glass makes everything feel dirty.  A dribble of the drink escapes the lip of his glass and Peter catches it on his tongue, swiping the muscle over his goatee.

A shiver runs down Stiles’ spine as he drags his focus back to the camera.  

Peter has changed his clothes yet again.  Which Stiles absolutely has not had the time to notice because he is too busy fucking a microphone at the man’s insistence.  But if he had looked more than just a quick glance or two, or three, out of the corner of his eye, he would know that Peter is now in a classic black suit, white shirt collar perfectly crisp and flat over his neat tie knot.  

His hair is different, cut short and combed into a severe part with the barest wisp of a swooped curl hanging over his forehead.  It’s styled in that classic, smoothed and hardened way that makes Peter look like a vintage photograph. They must have had to do a very quick change after Jackson’s breakdown, because as usual, Peter looks impeccable.

He’s Cary Grant in an old Hitchcock film—stunning and timeless—and that makes Stiles Joan Fontaine, because he sure as shit isn’t Grace Kelly.

“Yeah,” Stiles drags out, making way for Derek’s guitar solo and the string section to come in, led by Paige on the cello.  He does some ad-libs, making sure to keep his hands up near the head of the microphone when he sings. When he’s humming though, Stiles lets his hands wander down the stand, fingers trailing low as he grinds his hips into it along with the beat.   

“Whooo,” Stiles grinds out in his falsetto, rolling his hips to the beat.  He pulls his jacket off, tossing it to the side, eyes still straight ahead.  The crowd goes apeshit as soon as his shirt is revealed, so much so that he’s scared to look down and see if his nipples are peaked under the crisp white fabric.

Peter was right.  These pants are way too fucking tight.  He can feel his dick pressing against the zipper and tries to detach himself from the sensation before he starts singing in his _I definitely have a boner_ voice.  

The ladies in the crowd—and several of the men— seem to love it, so he keeps going, looking over his shoulder to point at a few of the musicians, directing the band as he lets his microphone stand fall again and catches it just in time with his foot.

 

“I put a spell, I put a spell on you

I got a thousand of tricks in my pocket baby”

 

He growls, making good use of the lower key.  

Erica whistles between two fingers, catching his attention and then it’s just a few scant inches to the right before he’s focused on Peter again, against his better judgment.  

The man in question has his hands clasped together in front of his stupid, chiseled jaw, a knowing smirk on his face.  He loves being right, and the way Stiles is driving this performance home, working the crowd, fucking the daylights out of the mic stand, it’s more than satisfying, it’s a home run.  

Peter plants the seeds and Stiles brings them to fruition.  

 

“And I’m gonna make you love me

I gotta make you love me

I gotta make you love me”

 

Why does he have to be so fucking attractive and why does Stiles have to be locking eyes with him on these lyrics in particular?  It can’t get any more cliché than this. Stiles can hear Boyd and Isaac hollering over the din of the crowd and he doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of being right, but he just can’t look away from Peter’s piercing blue gaze.

 

“I put a spell on you

Because you’re mine”

 

That’s it, Stiles has to close his eyes.  He’s just making it too easy for them. The entire universe thinks he’s banging Peter Hale which would be fine if he actually was getting sex, but he’s not.  He’s just another hot boy on Peter’s team, probably indistinguishable from Jackson, the guy who just came out as his goddamn son. Stiles is just going to keep his eyes shut tight and finish the damn song with his hands wrapped tight around the mic, just like he practiced.

 

“I put a spell on you”

 

He grinds out the last line but the band isn’t coming in with the last chord like they practiced.  They’re holding it. They’re still holding it. Fuck, they’re waiting for him to kill it. Stiles’ eyes snap open and he throws both of his hand into the air, directing the orchestra hits and then letting them fall back down to either side of the microphone.  And if his fingers happen to be pointing right at Peter Hale when the lights go down, it’s just a wild coincidence, just a bit of theatrical conducting.

His interview with Allison goes by in a blur and all Stiles can think about is how hard he is in his tiny, far too tight pants.  He’s escorted off stage and before he can even try to remember what he just said in front of millions of viewers, Peter is there, having abandoned his cocktail table in favor of following him off stage.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles yelps, heading for the stage door.  “Chris Argent is about to sing. You need to be in your seat.”

“I just wanted to do this,” Peter says, catching Stiles by the hand and pressing a kiss to his sweaty cheek.  “You were wonderful,” he purrs into Stiles’ ear in full view of his ex-husband and approximately forty other Hit Single staff members.

“Oh my God!  Are you for real?  We aren’t doing this right now!” Stiles yells, pulling away and heading toward the blissfully cool outdoors.

“So we’re going to do it later then?” Peter asks, stopping the stage door with his palm before it slams shut.  “I was hoping you wouldn’t be turned off by the whole age difference. Clearly, I’m old enough to be your father because as it turns out, I actually _am_ Jackson’s father.  I had a feeling sleeping with that Fairchild girl was going to catch up to me one day.”

“Wow uh—” Stiles says, eyes going wide as the realization dawns on him.  Peter Hale is actually, legitimately interested in him. It’s not a joke.  It’s actually happening. “I don’t know, Peter,” he says, turning around and wiping his sweaty forehead off with the arm of his shirt.  

“Darling, stop,” Peter says, turning Stiles back around to face him.  “Let me say this and then I’ll go back inside and you can get back in your theatre box and you can have all night to think about it.”

“What?” Stiles asks, swallowing roughly.  

“I know what I look like—”

Stiles can’t help but laugh.  “You know what you look like? Thank fuck for that,” he giggles, bordering on hysterical.  Everything is just so ridiculous—larger than life. It’s glitz and glamour and whispered conversations in back alleys that somehow get filmed and shown to millions of people.  

Hollywood drama is not for the faint of heart.  

Stiles can’t even take it seriously anymore.  Laughing is the only way to cope with the high-budget circus that his personal life has become.

“—Stop laughing, I’m being serious,” Peter says, reaching for Stiles’ hand.  “I know what I look like, that I make a spectacle of myself. I know what my reputation is.  I know I’ve made mistakes in the past, my trainwreck of a marriage for one. And I could probably just do a blanket apology for all of 1987, but I’m not that man anymore.  If I find that I have children, I’m going to love them and take care of them and if I find someone I think I could be with, really be myself with, I’m going to love and take care of them too.”

“I don’t think I can do this, Peter,” Stiles says, licking his lips.  As much as he wants to, there’s just too much on the line for him to fuck it all up for sex.  “I can’t just be another name on your list of hookups. I don’t want to be on the cover of the scandal sheets next to a photo of you and Jackson, reunited at last.  I need to focus.”

“People are always going to want to take my picture, that’s never going to change,” Peter says, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the Tag Heuer he bought Stiles—the watch Stiles may shed a tear pawning after all this is over.  “But the rest of it—the parties, the drugs, the drinking, the sleeping around. That’s all behind me. I’m a different man. I can be something different for you.”

“You need to go,” Stiles says, pulling his hand out of Peter’s grasp.  “You need to be back on stage.”

“Just think about it, Stiles.  That’s all I ask,” Peter says, eyes searching.  He frowns and then heads back inside.

“I’m saying no, Peter.  I’m sorry,” Stiles calls after him.

Peter doesn’t look back.  His head falls exposing the tan expanse of his neck.  With slumped shoulders, he ducks through the studio door and lets it slam behind him.

“You are so fucked,” a voice says behind him.  

Stiles turns to look and finds Danielle taking a drag on an illicit cigarette just minutes before she’s due on stage.  

“Don’t I know it,” Stiles replies, shaking his head and letting out a huge sigh before going back through the stage door and making the long trek around the stage to his seat.  

“You did great,” Boyd says quickly before Kira takes the stage to do a wonderfully melancholy version of _La Vie En Rose_.  She gets a standing ovation and blushes furiously when Allison asks her if she’s been singing about someone special in particular.  

Apparently, there is more than one budding showmance going on behind the scenes.  

She stammers out a painfully unconvincing no and then it’s the twins with their rendition of _My Girl_.  The delivery leaves most people scratching their heads and the choreography has them wondering if the twins are involved in some sort of incestual triad.   

Danielle, Satomi, Brett, and Jordan fill out the second half of the program along with Morrell’s over-the-top R&B production of _It Had to Be You_.  Stiles cheers and claps along with the rest of the crowd, but his heart isn’t in it.  His head is going a mile a minute, trying to reconcile his pants feelings with his heart feelings and what the combination might mean in regards to his future interactions with Peter—the coach he will be forced to work with for the duration of the show.  

He’s so distracted in fact, it’s not until Theo is taking the stage for the final number that Stiles’ remembers his second sabotage.  The band starts _Mack the Knife_ three whole keys above what Theo rehearsed and the bastard just goes with it like a real-life sociopath!

Cora assured him that Theo had five key changes planned instead of the usual four so by all accounts, he should be completely fucked by the end, but as the song goes on, it becomes clear that Theo is just that good.  He smiles with way too many teeth, looking like a true shark as he completely torpedoes Stiles’ plan to knock him out.

“Fuck,” Boyd mutters as Theo enters the fourth key.  “He’s going to pull it off.”

“I think we actually helped him,” Stiles mutters in disbelief.  “Erica should have had him do it like this the whole time. His range is insane.”

“It’s okay,” Boyd assures him as they file out of the box for the final group number.  “I’ll beat him the old-fashioned way. Somehow.”

“I know you will, buddy,” Stiles says, patting him on the shoulder.

“What do I have to do to get you to stop touching me?”

“Just go with it, stud muffin,” Stiles says with a smile.  “My bro Scotty can’t fly back out unless I make it to the finale so you’re getting the full best friend treatment.”

“We’re not friends.”

“Sure, we’re not, bestie,” Stiles says, letting Kira pass in front of them to get to her mark.  “People who aren’t friends always sing _The Way You Look Tonight_ to each other in darkened theatres.”

“There are thousands of people here,” Boyd argues as the stagehand passes out their wireless microphones.  “You’re not just singing it to me.”

“Whatever you say, big guy,” Stiles says, smiling broadly.  

Pending friendship notwithstanding, there’s one thing Stiles knows for sure—if he’s singing the song to Boyd, he won’t be singing it to Peter.


	6. Chapter 6

“Stiles,” John says, clearing his throat with a jagged cough as soon as the Skype call connects.  The infection still hasn’t cleared up and it’s becoming worrisome. “Son… please don’t do this to me.”

“What are you talking about?” Stiles asks, thankful that for once, there aren’t any cameras around.  He’s saving a brotherly chat with Scott for his next filmed Skype call. He’s the least likely to tease Stiles about Peter on air.  “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re getting involved with Peter Hale, something that I explicitly asked you not to do,” he adds, glaring through the camera.  “I begged, kid.”

“First of all, you know me,” Stiles says, holding up one finger.  “If you didn’t want me to do something, you shouldn’t have told me not to.  Second of all, I turned him down, okay?”

“What?” Melissa’s voice shouts from somewhere off-screen.  “Tell me you didn’t!” she sighs, rushing into frame. “Why?  He’s gorgeous and rich and this is completely beside the point but I kind of have a betting pool going on with the nurses and you’re going to mess it all up if you turn prude on me now!”

“Excuse me?” Stiles says, clutching his chest in offense.  “Are you seriously pimping me out for cash right now? What kind of mother are you?”

“The kind that has a mortgage and may possibly be getting two more mouths to feed if you guys can’t pull out a win here… or until you marry rich.  There’s always that.”

“We’re going to be fine, Melissa,” John says, coughing again.  

She steps out of frame for a second to check his monitors when one of them starts beeping.  “You just focus on healing. Let Stiles focus on singing and maybe a little something extra, if you know what I mean,” she says, ducking back in front of the camera to wink at Stiles.

“Yes, I know what you mean, you’re not subtle,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.  

“Listen to me kid,” John says, sitting up as straight as he can against his pile of pillows.  While the sheriff has lost some of his bravado being bed-bound, it’s still impressive the way he can turn on the authority when he has to.  “That man had his way with literally everyone in the 80s, and then everyone in the 90s, too. You can’t trust him.”

“He may have had some wild years,” Stiles admits, though he has no idea why he feels the need to rush to Peter’s defense, “but I have it on good authority he hung up his dick after he divorced Chris Argent.”

“Hung up his...?” John repeats, rubbing at his forehead in exasperation.  “Really, Stiles?”

“It’s true!” Stiles insists, “I heard it from Scott who heard it from Allison because apparently, they’re a thing now.”

“What?” Melissa gasps, taking her seat on the edge of John’s bed again.  “I’m going to kill him. He’s been holed up on my couch playing Xbox for two whole weeks and never said a word.  I’m always the last to know these things.”

“I wouldn’t call it dating,” Stiles backtracks, not wanting to get his bro in trouble.  They may be heading toward thirty, but Melissa can still find a way to punish them like they’re twelve years old again.  “They only met in person the one time. I think they’ve just been texting a bit.”

“She’s so beautiful, they’re going to make adorable babies,” Melissa gushes, hopping off the bed.  “I’m going to go tell Doris to start snipping photos of Allison to add to her collage. And remember,” she says, pointing a finger at Stiles before she leaves.  “There’s nothing wrong with having a little fun with a legendary sex god, okay? I think your mom would want you to, honestly.”

“Get out of here,” John groans, pushing her hip until she leaves.  “Such a bad influence.”

“I told him no, Dad,” Stiles assures his father once again.  “I’m here to win, not to get sidetracked. We need the money.”

“I know you’ll do your best.  I just wish you didn’t have to worry about this kind of thing,” John says, eyes falling to his lap.  “I want you to be able to finish college one day.”

“If I get a recording contract, I won’t need college, Pops.  I’m keeping my eye on the prize.”

“Okay, kid,” John says with a small smile.  “Knock ‘em dead.”

“I will,” he says.  “Plus, word on the street is that Peter’s dick is like, comically large.  It would just rip me apart. I don’t need any of that,” he adds, sticking his tongue out.  

“I hate you sometimes,” John says, shaking his head.  “Please never talk to me about dicks ever again.”

“I love you too, Dad,” Stiles says with a grin, “but I won’t make a promise I can’t keep.”

“Hanging up now,” John says.  

“Peace out, Pops.”

 

* * *

 

 “So,” Stiles says, gnawing on thumb nail.  “What do you have for me this week? It better be something good after last week’s soap opera catastrophe.  Seriously, that thing was like a three hour after school special. I’m surprised there wasn’t a safe sex talk and 1-800 helpline number flashing afterward.”  

He tries to play it off, pretend that he didn’t just shoot the man’s perfectly reasonable and romantic offer down, because the alternative is looking at Peter with pity, and that’s just not something he’s equipped to do right now.

“Very funny,” Peter says, rolling his eyes.  “Just because Jackson’s taken himself out of the game doesn’t mean the competition is over.  You still have Jordan to beat if you want to be my champion in the finale.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, acting more confident than he feels.  There’s plenty of competition left. After the scores were tallied last week they lost the twins, Danielle _and_ Brett, one act for each hour of the episode.  Stiles is fairly sure Isaac has his finale slot on lock but Boyd and Kira still have two solid competitors left on their teams to knock out.  “Lay it on me,” he says, smirking while making a gimmie motion with one hand.

“I think you’re going to have a lot of fun with this one, Stiles,” Peter says, sliding a few pages of sheet music across the closed lid of the piano.  

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Stiles says, as soon as he sees the title.  “ _Cherry Pie_?  I’m as gay as a maypole at a pride parade and you’re going to make me sing a song about vagina?  Very funny,” he says, sliding the music back toward Peter. “What am I really singing?”

“It’s coaches’ choice this week, and this is what I picked out for you,” Peter says simply, crossing his arms over his bare chest.  He’s not even trying today—he’s wearing suspenders but no shirt, just two straps of black fabric holding up his over-ripped jeans, bare feet clinging to the base of his stool.  “It’s a classic of the genre. _My_ genre.  Take it or leave.”

“So you’re punishing me?” he adds softly, eyes narrowing.  He’s sure the microphones and cameras are picking up every word he says, but that doesn’t mean he has to make it easy for them.  “Because of what I said yesterday? I have to sing this?”

“I’m sure you can find a way to put your own spin on it,” Peter says with a smirk, not giving Stiles an ounce of sympathy.  “Take it from the top!” he calls at the band.

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles groans, heading over to the microphone and setting the music on his stand.  “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Karma is a bitch, isn’t it?” Derek says with a shit-eating grin.  

“I’m going to get kicked off this show and for what?  Just because I’m trying to think with my head and not my dick for once?” Stiles mutters to him.

“You better figure out how to make this song work for you,” Derek says, “and quick.  Even if you manage to beat Jordan this week, you’re still going to be left with Isaac, Boyd, and probably Kira in the finale.  You need to step up your game. Be memorable. Stand out. You’re on an upward swing. Keep the momentum going.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Stiles whines, knowing Derek is right.  “Changing the pronouns just makes it a song about buttholes.”

“Then make it the best song about buttholes anyone has ever heard,” Derek suggests, shrugging his shoulders and pointing at Cora who counts out the beat.

“I hate all of you,” Stiles says directly into the mic, rolling his shoulders as he waits for his cue.

They run through the song several times, changing the key until it’s to Stiles’ liking and repeating passages and transitions that Peter thinks could use some work.

“You hate this,” he remarks with a grin after the last run through.  He’s leaning back on his stool, abs flexing underneath his suspenders as he balances himself, arms crossed over his pert chest.  It’s a ridiculous display that Stiles is having trouble ignoring.

“How could you tell?” Stiles asks with an eye roll.  

“Wild guess,” Peter says, eyes sparkling with mirth.  

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Stiles groans, twisting his lips and shaking his head.  

“Only a little bit,” Peter says, wagging his eyebrows.  “Let’s take five and do it again. And this time I want to really feel how much you want the pie, darling—how much you need it.  Really sell it to me,” Peter says, floating back out of the studio and out of sight.

“This is horrible,” Stiles whines, flopping down on the padded floor and rolling around.  “Just leave me here to die. RIP my career in music.”

“Maybe if you stopped throwing a tantrum and actually used your fucking brain, you would make some decent music,” Cora suggests, firing one of her sticks at him with such accuracy the head nails him right in the belly button.

“Ugh, fine!” Stiles whines, tossing the stick back to her.  He sits up and takes a minute to do some stretches before rolling his head on his shoulders and standing.  Maybe it’s the tone that’s throwing him off. He’s done this before, turning a rock anthem on its head. If he can shred to _Sweet Child O Mine_ on the violin, he can make _Cherry Pie_ sound sultry and modern.  “I’ve got an idea,” he says as soon as Peter flounces back in.

“Fantastic,” Peter says, tone dripping with sarcasm.  He gestures to the microphone. “Dazzle me.”

Determined to show Peter up, Stiles turns to the band and says, “You guys are great, like really top notch musicians, 10 out of 10 would jam with you forever, but why don’t you sit this one out.  I’m going to do it myself.”

“You are not doing this whole song a cappella,” Derek growls, shaking his head.  “That’s not a Hit Single, that’s a dumpster fire waiting to happen. They’ll never put it on the radio.”

“I didn’t say I was doing it a cappella, Mr. Teeth,” Stiles says, peeling his flannel shirt off and tossing it to the floor.  

“Well, I know you’re not accompanying yourself on the violin, so what exactly do you think you’re doing?” Peter asks, tapping his bare foot on the rung of his stool.  

“Just shut up and listen,” Stiles says, linking his fingers together behind his back and stretching once more before taking a seat at the baby grand.  He lifts the fall and exposes the keys, playing a few chords to check the tuning. It’s perfect.

“You play the piano,” Peter says.  It isn’t a question, it’s an exasperated statement.

“I play the piano,” Stiles agrees, winking at him.  

“I should have known,” Peter drawls, leaning forward on his stool to rest his elbows on his knees.  “Those fingers…”

“Don’t get pervy,” Stiles warns him, with a tiny twist of the lips.  He will not smile at Peter Hale. “They’re just fingers.”

“Yeah, right,” Danny pipes up from behind his music stand.  “Fingers are just fingers and tongues are just tongues, right?” he adds, raising his eyebrows lasciviously.  Licking his lips he brings his trumpet up to his mouth and does a few tonguing exercises by way of an example.

“Alright, you’ve proved your point,” Stiles says, shaking his head.  “Now just shut up and let me try this.”

“Be my guest,” Derek says, pulling his guitar strap over his head and setting it down.  “It’s not like I’m the musical director here or anything. Dipshit,” he mutters in an aside as he takes a seat.

Stiles doesn’t even respond.  He closes his eyes and tries to hum the tune he’s going for, familiarizing himself with the chord changes as he ghosts his fingers over the keys without pressing any of them.  The band and Peter all settle in to watch and the room falls blessedly quiet. He takes the few seconds of complete silence to breathe deeply and really let himself sink into the music.  

When he feels like he’s got something, he begins to sing alone.

 

“He’s my cherry pie

Cool drink of water such a sweet surprise

Tastes so good make a grown man cry

Sweet cherry pie”

 

“Can I get some harmony from someone?” he asks, eyes flashing open.  “Jennifer? You sing, right?”

“Don’t insult me, kid.  I sang backup for Peter for fifteen years,” she huffs, rolling her eyes.  “What do you want?”

“Yeesh, cut me a break, I’m just trying to make music here,” he says, holding up his hands.  “Who else? I need another voice.”

“I got it,” Braeden says, putting her bass down to join Jennifer by the piano.  “Just play it out for us.”

It takes almost no time at all for them to pick up what Stiles is putting down.  “I love working with professionals,” Stiles says, smiling adoringly up at them. “Now how about some soft drums?  Cora? Bongos? I’ll tell you when.”

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” she says, but stands to take a seat behind the bongos anyway.  “You do know that Derek is the producer here, right?”

“I’m well aware,” Stiles says, tone flat and unimpressed.  “But it’s my ass on the line, so I’m going with my vision, not yours.”

“You’re lucky my uncle likes you.”

The man in question simply shrugs and looks away.  Clearly, Stiles needs to try a little harder if he’s going to get him properly worked up.

 

“Well swingin' on the front porch swingin' on the lawn

Swingin' where we want 'cause there ain't nobody home

Swingin' to the left and swingin' to the right

If I think about baseball I'll swing all night”

 

Stiles sings anyway, playing the sweetest broken minor chords under the whole thing.  It’s light but cuts deep, and when Stiles presses down on the una corda pedal, the bongos blend in perfectly, giving the entire thing an ethereal feel.  Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Peter squirm a little in his seat. Finally, someone to properly appreciate Stiles’ fingers.

It’s almost too easy.  Jennifer and Braeden pick up on the pronoun changes immediately.  They make artistic choices that feel effortless, layering over Stiles’ altered melody on certain words for emphasis and adding to the jazz trio vibe he’s building.  When he reaches the second verse, Derek joins in, picking up Braeden’s abandoned bass and laying down an ambling line.

The lyrics are ridiculous, but what Peter Hale wants, Peter Hale gets, and Stiles isn’t fucking around.  If he’s going to sing this piece of garbage song, it’s go big or go home, and going home has never been an option for Stiles.  

 

“Swingin' in the living room, swingin' in the kitchen

Most folks don't 'cause they're too busy bitchin'

Swingin' in there 'cause he wanted me to feed him

So I mixed up the batter and he licked the beater”

 

He drags the words out, licking his lips far too often, rolling his shoulders like he’s jerking off the piano keys, making unflinching eye contact with Peter.  If it’s got to be this song, right here, right now with the cameras rolling and Peter fucking Hale half-naked in front of him, it’s going over the top.

It’s going to be the filthiest gay anthem Stiles can muster.  

 

“I scream you scream we all scream for him

Don't even try 'cause you can't ignore him”

 

He croons, closing his eyes briefly just because he has to know.  He has to know if Peter will still be looking when he opens them.

 

“He’s my cherry pie

Cool drink of water such a sweet surprise

Tastes so good make a grown man cry

Sweet cherry pie”

 

Stiles takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, locking them onto Peter’s, all but grinding his ass into the piano bench.  Sure, it may be a cheap imitation of Fiona Apple, but right now, Stiles has no shame. If he can make Peter Hale get hard on camera, he’ll consider it the biggest victory of his life, including that one time he convinced Scott that being a true ally included dressing in drag at the San Francisco Pride Parade.

 

“He's my cherry pie

Put a smile on your face ten miles wide

Looks so good bring a tear to your eye

Sweet cherry pie

Sweet cherry pie”

 

By the time Stiles finishes the song, Peter is nodding his head in approval.   “I’ll admit,” he says, standing up from his stool. “That wasn’t half bad.”

“Not half bad?” Stiles repeats, offended.  “I nailed it.”

“I think you just made it clear to everyone that you’re not nailing anything here, sweetheart,” Peter purs, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and tugging them lower on his hips.  It’s so casually done, on anyone else it would have looked like a natural adjustment, but this is Peter Hale. Everything he does is deliberate, from his staging to his facial expressions, from his hairstyle to his footwear choice, or lack thereof.

The band laughs, Cora loudest of all.  

“It’s cute, but it’s not quite there yet.  I’m just not getting sex appeal from you,” Peter carries on, pulling half-aborted snickers from the camera crew and musicians.  “Jordan has something really special. It’s that boy next door sweetness coupled with some sort of animal magnetizm... like you just know he’d raw you on the hood of his car right after he knocked it out of the park meeting your parents.  Not me, obviously, but the viewers love an all-American boy. He’s a veteran, for fuck’s sake,” Peter says, digging the knife a little deeper every time. “You’re going to have to try harder than that if you want to win their favor.”

“What is this, the Hunger Games?” Stiles shoots back, swinging his legs around the piano bench and tossing his pencil down in frustration.  “Why does everything have to be a spectacle? Why do we have to cheapen it? Can’t we just make music? Isn’t that what you told me the very first week?  To be real? Genuine?”

“Yes,” Peter agrees.  “I did tell you that. And I meant it,” he says, stepping forward to press his pointer finger into Stiles’ chest.  “What you just did was good, but it was all an act. If you’re going to be sexy, be real. Show me the real you, not what you think I want.  Let me see you have some fun.”

“I feel like I’m getting a lot of mixed messages here,” Stiles whines, standing up, pushing himself further into Peter’s finger, into his personal space.  “You want something real, but you want entertainment. You want me to be myself, but not boring, is that it?”

“The song is about sex, darling,” Peter says, trailing his finger up Stiles’ chest to the neckline of his tee-shirt and around his collarbone.  “You need to sing it like you mean it. I need to feel it. You need to make me want you. I mean tear off your pants, rip your tee-shirt, fuck you right here on the floor in front of everyone—want you.  No lies, no bullshit, just dirty, filthy sex,” he says, flipping his hand over until his black-polished fingernails run up the side of Stiles’ throat. “That’s the kind of sex that sells records,” he says, leaning in to breathe against Stiles’ temple.  “The kind that goes platinum,” he adds directly into his ear before leaning back.

Stiles is absolutely not licking his lips as he inhales Peter’s designer cologne.  He will not look down at Peter’s lips. He will not hold his breath. He is not going to give into this sexual blackmail.  He will not, absolutely not, repeat, will not get hard right now.

“Cat got your tongue, songbird?” Peter says, filling the dead air when Stiles can’t manage a reply.  “I think you need the challenge. You thrive on it, having the last word, being the wittiest person in the room, but you’re thinking too hard.  Let me give you a piece of parting advice.”

“I don’t—” Stiles tries to argue but gets cut off.

“—When have I ever been wrong?  Following my advice is what has gotten you this far already,” he points out.  “If you want to win, you’re going to need to lose the attitude and listen to me.  I have over thirty years of experience in this business. I’m not your friend, not your anything else, as you’ve so painfully made clear.  I am your coach. They gave me this job for a reason. Let me _coach_ you.”

“Fine,” Stiles grinds out, reaching out to take Peter by the wrist and pull his hand away from where it’s resting on Stiles’ throat.  It’s annoying because he knows Peter is right. If he’d done it the way he and Lydia planned he would have been kicked off in the second week.  

“What’s your sage wisdom this time?” he yells, anger growing, coiling in his stomach like a beast.  Just because Peter is always right doesn’t mean he has to like it. Peter doesn’t get to give Stiles a rage boner.  Not today.

“Fuck the piano bench some more?” he asks, kicking the leg of it.  “Fuck an amplifier? Fuck the guitarist? Because I could do that if you wanted.  How about it Derek?” Stiles calls over, spinning around. “Your uncle here doesn’t think I know how to be sexy.  I brought the house down last week but apparently, that wasn’t enough to convince America that I’m a real musician.  I need some more star power! That means it must be time for a sex tape. So how about you and I give it a go right here?”

“He’s seeing someone,” Peter says easily, not raising his voice, not losing his temper.  “And he doesn’t do men.”

His calm only serves to fuel Stiles’ fire.

“Okay, fine,” Stiles says, throwing his arms up in the air.  “How about you, Cora? How about a quick bean toss or whatever women call it?  If that’s what it takes to win this damn recording contract, sign me up.”

“I don’t do men either,” she says with a yawn, twirling her drumstick around between her fingers.  “And you’ve never satisfied a woman, clearly, so just cut the dramatics, ‘kay? Your little lovers’ spat is entertainment enough,” she says, rolling her eyes as she points one stick at the cameraman.  “You don’t need to drag the rest of us into it.”

“We’re not lovers!” Stiles whines, throwing his head back to look at the ceiling in frustration.  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this guy kind of drives me crazy,” he shouts, gesturing to Peter.  “No matter what I do, it’s never enough for him!”

”Still not getting involved,” Derek growls, unplugging his instrument and gesturing for the rest of the band and the camera crew to follow him out.  “We’re done for the day.”

“Great,” Stiles says, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.  “That’s just fantastic. It’s not like I have a number to nail down or anything,” he grumbles as they all file out the door.

“All this whining,” Peter tuts, clucking his tongue, “it’s very unbecoming.”

“Why are you doing this?” Stiles asks, feeling rage rise in his throat.  If he lets it out, embraces the anger, it might be enough to hide the hurt that threatens to consume him and bring a quaver to his voice.  “You know how much I need this.”

“We all deserve a second chance, don’t we?” Peter asks with a sad smile.  “A chance to reinvent ourselves. Become more than we are, more than what people see,” he adds, gesturing downward, drawing Stiles’ eyes to his bare chest, then stomach, then feet in turn.

Stiles bites his lip, considering.

“I’m giving you an opportunity here,” Peter says, reaching out to grip the edge of the piano.  “It’s not the song holding you back, it’s yourself.”

“You’re a real bastard, you know that?” Stiles says, suddenly grateful Derek had thought to give him and Peter some time alone without prying eyes and ears.

Peter laughs, loud and long, chest heaving with the size of it.  “If my sister were alive, I think she’d disagree with you. She was quite proud of our heritage,” he says once he’s laughed out.  “But I’ll give you that one. My parents hated me. I was the problem child.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Stiles mutters, shaking his head.  “If the walls of that house could talk, I bet there’d be a best selling biography in there.”

“Good thing they can’t,” Peter says.  His usual crystal clear blue eyes turn stormy as his face falls.  Before Stiles has the chance to ask, he’s out the door. The soles of Peter’s bare feet turning the corner of the hallway are the last thing Stiles sees.

 

* * *

“I have an idea,” Lydia says as soon as Stiles is done filling her in on his last rehearsal.  

“I don’t like that look,” Stiles says, shaking his head at his phone screen.  “That’s the same look you had on your face after the spelling bee in the third grade.”

“I won that spelling bee.”

“Correction,” Stiles says, holding up a warning finger.  “You made Reese Applebaum cry and _then_ you won that spelling bee.”

“He was weak,” Lydia argues, pursing her lips.  “He didn’t know what a kibbutz was, let alone how to spell it properly.”

“We were 8!”

“There’s no excuse for sloppy research,” Lydia says, using the self-facing camera to wipe a smudge of mascara from the corner of her eye.  “Speaking of which… you didn’t read up on Peter Hale, did you?”

“I was supposed to be on Morrell’s team,” Stiles whines again, “that was the plan!”

“Plans change,” Lydia says sternly.  “You should have prepared for all contingencies, not just the probable ones.”

“Yes ma’am,” Stiles says, giving a fake salute.  “I’ll remember that next time I’m ambushed on national television.  Now, what was your idea?”

“Remember that summer I decided that cheerleading camp would be good practice for my career in corporate takeovers?”

“Vividly,” Stiles says, leaning his chin on his fist.  “You made Scott and I detangle your pom pom strings for hours at a time.”

“Well,” she says, raising her eyebrows.  “Apart from the pranks and emotional manipulation, those girls taught me a thing or two about working a crowd… and a judging panel.”

“Lydia, no.”

“Lydia, yes,” she says, smiling broadly.  “I’m dialing in Allison and telling her to find you some studio space.  This is going to take a while.”

“Fuck,” Stiles says, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips.  “I’m going to add Scott too. If this is going where I think it’s going, I’m going to need emotional support.”

“Can you find a room with a mirror?” she asks, moving away from her computer to kneel down on the floor and start rolling up her area rug.  “And a bigger screen for Skype? And a crop top?”

“A what?  Lydia!”

“This is going to be amazing,” she says, giggling.  “We’re going to beat Peter Hale at his own game, and it’s going to feel so good.

 

* * *

Stiles can’t believe he’s doing this.  It’s exactly what he didn’t want to do.  Play the game? Sure. Cheat? Absolutely.  But make an ass out of himself on national television?  If he was going to go out this round, he hoped it would at least be with a little dignity.  

It’s going to blow up in his face.  He’s going to trip over a wire and break his ass, or forget the words, or run out of breath and sound awful.  There’s no way he can win like this.

It starts out simple enough, he sits at an upright piano that blocks most of his body, but otherwise, he does it exactly like he did in rehearsal.  Jennifer and Braeden sound amazing and Cora and Derek clearly spent time practicing his stripped-down arrangement because their timing is perfect. Stiles slips into the pocket so easily, it’s a shame he’s about to ruin it all just to make a point.

As he reaches the second verse, Stiles looks past the camera, searching for something.  Motivation? Purpose? A sign that this all isn’t a huge mistake?

Peter, of course, catches his eye.  He’s nodding his head to the beat but looks grim.  When Stiles takes a moment to look past him to the audience, he realizes why.  There’s a smattering of people whistling, a few clapping to the beat, but it’s nothing like the reaction he thought he would receive.   

Licking his lips a little more aggressively than usual, Stiles realizes that Peter was right, yet again.  The crowd just isn’t buying it. He’d thought it was clever, the slow, teasing version of the song he’d come up with, a parody, for lack of a better word, but something was getting lost in translation.  

You can’t just make a boring jazz cover of _Cherry Pie_ and expect people to laud you for your originality.  All it’s going to do is make them want to go listen to the original instead, and that’s not going to get Stiles’ version to the top of the charts.

When they reach the second chorus, Stiles finds his resolve.  If this is the way it’s got to be, he’s going to make Lydia, Allison, and every conniving cheerleader in America blush.  

The second his fingers leave the piano, Cora is wailing on the drums and Derek has already switched out the bass for an electric guitar.  He takes a precious few seconds to strip out of his flannel shirt and tie it around his waist and then it’s full steam ahead. There ain’t no getting off this train once it starts.

Stiles has to commit fully and shake what his mama gave him.

 

“Swingin' to the drums swingin' to guitar

Swingin' to the bass in the back of my car

Ain't got money ain't got no gas

But we'll bet where we're goin' if we swing real fast”

 

As soon as Stiles steps around the piano and exposes his bare legs and stomach, the crowd goes completely insane.  He’d asked Lydia and Allison if they were sure about the ensemble a dozen times and they assured him that he looked amazing.  Even Scott had to agree that he had no idea where Stiles was hiding those abs, but they were ready for their television debut.  

He was sure the tiny headset mic would have given him away, but the shocked and in some cases appalled looks from the coaches tell him differently.  He doesn’t have much time to dwell on Chris Argent’s expression—which is hovering somewhere between nausea and horror—because he’s face down, ass up, twerking like Suzie Pinkowitz after her first ever wine cooler back in the 9th grade.

 

“He's my cherry pie

Cool drink of water such a sweet surprise

Tastes so good make a grown man cry

Sweet cherry pie”

 

Stiles twirls and shimmies and tosses around his non-existent hair, but for the most part he’s praying that the tiny shorts they put him in are taped down well enough he won’t lose a ball during one of his booty pops.  He drags his flannel up to expose his ass and looks over one shoulder to finally catch Peter’s expression.

It’s more than Stiles could have ever hoped for.  

Peter’s lips are parted, frozen in a sudden intake of breath.  His cheeks are flushed and though the lighting is dark, Stiles is fairly sure the blush is traveling down his throat and over his exposed chest.  

It’s only a quick glance, but as he rocks his hips and then drops to his knees, Stiles tells himself yes, those were erect nipples he just saw.  It steels his resolve. If Stiles’ dancing can do that to Peter Hale, the fans at home must be literally fainting.

 

“He's my cherry pie

Put a smile on your face ten miles wide

Looks so good bring a tear to your eye

Sweet cherry pie”

 

Stiles is sweating buckets, but happy.  His shame and embarrassment have left him, right along with the skin on his left knee.  The crowd is roaring so loud he wishes his monitor was turned up. For the first time since Lydia suggested this stunt, he’s not praying for backup dancers to come draw attention away from his flailing.  All eyes on him doesn’t feel like it used to. Now, the attention fuels his manic, rage-induced mating dance.

Exhausted as he is, Stiles still can’t get through the last verse without grinning like a madman, imagining his father’s reaction.  The hospital staff better be on standby or he might have another heart attack.

 

“Swingin' in the bathroom swingin' on the floor

Swingin' so hard we forgot to lock the door

In walks my daddy with a gun or four

Said you ain't gonna swing with my baby no more”

 

He almost cackles with glee when Derek leans into the microphone to sing the last line for him.  Whatever Cora blackmailed him with must have been good, because he really tries to sell it, and the audience shows their

appreciation with a chorus of ear-splitting screams.

 

“He's my cherry pie

Cool drink of water such a sweet surprise

Tastes so good make a grown man cry

Sweet cherry pie”

 

It’s almost over.  Stiles unties his flannel and lets it drop to the floor fully revealing his teeny athletic shorts.  They’re short enough the curve of his ass is visible below the black fabric.

When he grabs his crotch, spins, and does one final drop to the floor right in front of camera 2 to really drive it home, Erica Reyes screams loud enough that he nearly misses his final cue.

 

“Sweet cherry pie”

 

It’s shameless, but Stiles drops his hands to the floor in a loose-limbed bastardization of child’s pose before turning over onto his back and gasping for breath.  He stares up into the lights for a few seconds, letting the noise reverberate through his entire body. The floor is blessedly cold against his sweaty back and it takes Allison appearing above him, hand outstretched, for him to come to his senses.

“Wow,” she says as soon as he’s on his feet.  “Let’s hear it again for Stiles Stilinski!”

He laughs.  The noise is so overwhelming it doesn’t seem real.  

“How did you come up with that choreography?” Allison asks, fighting back a laugh.

Lydia must have put her up to it because she knows damn well how many times it took for Stiles to learn the moves.  After a brief explanation on the phone, Allison had turned up in the Hit Single house and dragged him to an empty dance studio where they rehearsed with Lydia and Scott via Skype for hours upon hours until they were confident he could pull it off.

“My friends back home, Lydia and Scott, they thought my performance needed a little something extra,” Stiles says, shrugging like it’s no big deal.  

“I take it you don’t dance often?” Allison asks, playing it up for the crowd.

“I’m kind of a spazz,” Stiles admits with a chuckle.  “I wear my flannel to the gay bars, but you know, the normal way, not like this,” he adds, gesturing to his shirt that’s still laying like a dirty castoff on the opposite side of the stage.

“Well,” Allison says, “I think you’re going to have to do it more often, right everyone?” She holds up one hand to her ear and then makes a beckoning gesture.  

The women in the crowd are thirsty.  They know he’s gay but that doesn’t seem to make a bit of difference.

“Now, let’s hear from your coach!  Peter? What do you have to say about Stiles’ performance?”

The screams even louder for a full minute.  Peter has to wave his hands around and beg for them to quiet down so he can be heard.  

“You’ve been holding out on me, songbird.”

Stiles shakes his head.  He can’t even come up with a witty response.  Peter and the crowd are doing all the work for him.  By not saying a word, he’s complicit in this farce, but as the audience whistles and starts chanting “Steter, Steter, Steter,” he realizes there’s no point in trying to fight it.

Melissa was right all along.  This is how he wins.

“Every time Stiles comes out on stage, he blows me away.”

“He blows you somewhere, alright,” Chris Argent mutters, pulling another round of cheers from the crowd.  

“He never does something the same way twice,” Peter carries on, ignoring Chris’ commentary.  “And I think that’s what makes him so…” he pauses, smiling to himself as he searches for the perfect word.  “Compelling.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Stiles finally manages to say.

“You’re welcome, darling,” Peter replies.

“How about a word from our other coaches?” Allison asks, moving the segment along.  “Erica?”

“I’ve got two words for you, Stilinski,” she says, a fiendish smile on her lips.  “Knee pads.”

“And that’s all we have time for,” Allison squeaks, turning to a different camera.  “Coming up next is Vernon Boyd with the classic _Isn’t She Lovely_ and closing out the night will be Theo Raeken with _Paper Thin._ ”

“CUT!” Finstock yells, stomping on stage, Greenberg hot on his heels.  “You two,” he says, around his whistle, pointing at Peter and then Stiles.  “With me.”

“Ooooh,” Erica calls as they follow Greenberg off stage.  “The lovebirds are in trouble! Did you guys fuck in the studio, or what?”

Stiles shoots her a sharp look, but it only makes her laugh harder.  By the time they make it outside, Peter is standing just a half step behind Stiles, his broad hand hovering over the small of Stiles’ back.  

“What can we do for you today, cupcake?” Peter says, smooth as butter, like he’s entertaining unwanted guests at a cocktail party.

“What do you want?” Stiles asks instead, cutting to the chase.

“It’s not about what I want, Bilinski, it’s about what the studio wants,” Finstock says, snapping his fingers until Greenberg hands him a printout.  

“Let me guess,” Stiles says, crossing his arms over his chest.  “The fat cats at EROX want me to tone it down. It’s fine that I’m gay, but I have to be the nice kind of gay, right?  The quiet kind?”

“Is this what quiet looks like from you?  Because you suck at it,” Finstock says, prompting Peter to take a step forward and place a protective arm in front of Stiles’ bare stomach.  “You’re like Greenberg after a pitcher of mango daiquiris, but no, that’s not what I mean.”

“What _do_ you mean?” Peter growls, vein throbbing in his neck like it’s about to explode.  

“They don’t want you to dial it down, they want you to dial it up,” Finstock says, flipping a few pages and then turning the paper around.  “Look at the minute to minutes,” he says, pointing at one spike in particular. “Here’s where you called him ‘songbird’ for the first time. And here’s where you pointed at him during your retro night number.  And tonight’s numbers? They’re off the charts. Your Twitter hashtag is exploding.”

“Really?” Stiles asks, suddenly proud of his skimpy outfit.  He’s going to have to buy Lydia a real birthday present this year, not just wash her car.  “How is my single doing? Do you think I could win?”

“Someone is already selling Steter merchandise on Etsy.  EROX is going to sue them for every penny, but you can’t put a price on publicity,” Finstock says, pulling his phone out of his gym shorts.  “Check out the Hit Single app. You’re breaking records left and right.”

“I could really do this,” Stiles says, unconsciously reaching out to grip Peter’s forearm.  “I could really win?”

He thought he’d been doing well, but a part of his mind always put that down to hubris, a winning attitude.  If you build it, they will come. But now, for the first time, Stiles thinks it’s not just fantasy. He might really have a slot in the finale.  He might actually have a chance of winning the cash and saving the house.

“Of course you’re going to win, darling,” Peter says, leaning in to press a kiss to Stiles’ cheek.  “What have I been saying for weeks?”

“That I should listen to you because you’re never wrong,” Stiles parrots, completely unphased by the fact that he and Peter are now holding each other like a couple would—Stiles’ hand around Peter’s wrist, Peter’s arm around Stiles’ waist.  

“Exactly,” Peter says, running his nose up Stiles’ throat to kiss him behind his ear.  “That’s exactly right, beautiful. You have been listening, haven’t you?”

“That,” Finstock says, pointing between Stiles’ skeptical expression and Peter’s nuzzling.  “That right there. They want more of that. The lovey-dovey stuff, the teasing, the banter.”

“The booty shorts,” Stiles supplies, rolling his eyes.  “The angry ex-husband.”

“All of it,” Finstock agrees, nodding his head as he throws the papers over his shoulder toward Greenberg.  “Dial that up. Get right up against the line of impropriety, and give it a gentle nudge, but don’t cross it.  The sexier it looks, the higher the ratings, the more votes you’ll get. Just keep it classy or we’ll be shut down faster than you can say ‘your honor, I did not have sexual relations with that crumb bun,’ capiche?”

“Capiche,” Stiles says, still smiling over the fact that his single is at the top of the charts.  

It’s either that or the way Peter’s thumb keeps brushing the waistline of his shorts.


	7. Chapter 7

“I can’t believe Boyd is gone,” Stiles says, rolling over on his bed as he chats with Scott.  “Fucking Theo can suck my dick.”

“I think Peter might have a problem with that,” Scott says.  “You two are like, actually together now, right?”

“Who knows.  It’s all public relations and interview lies at this point.  Speaking of which,” Stiles says, punching a pillow into the right shape and then shoving it under his head, “how are things going with Allison?”

“Perfect,” he says dreamily.  “She’s just so…”

“Perfect?” Stiles supplies, shaking his head fondly.  

“Yeah…” Scott agrees.  “Her hair is so shiny and her—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, bro,” Stiles says, smiling despite himself.  “I’ve met her. I know what she looks like.”

“But did you know she likes dogs?” Scott says quickly, overly excited.  “And I’m going to be a veterinarian. It’s perfect!”

“You’ve got it bad, huh buddy?”

“I need you to do me a favor, Stiles.  This is serious, okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” Stiles says, sitting up quickly, ready to jump into action.  

“I need you to get to the finale.  Because if you do they said they’d fly me and Lydia out there again to come out on stage in case you win,” Scott says, expression deadly serious.

“I guess…” Stiles says, drawing his answer out.  “I mean I’d been holding back until now. Waiting for my moment.  But if you really need me to, I guess I could step up my game and really give it my all.”

“Thanks, man,” Scott says, excitement growing in his voice.  “I know it’s only been a few weeks, but I think she’s the one.”

“I’m sure she is, Scotty,” Stiles says, and then settles back down against his pillows for what he’s sure will be an hour long description of Allison’s fingernails.

 

* * *

“A duet with my coach, huh?” Stiles asks as he strolls into the studio.  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Because this show is an incestuous pit of sex and lies?” Cora asks, flicking her ponytail around with a fake smile on her face.

“And rock and roll,” Peter says, coming up behind him.  “Don’t forget the rock and roll.”

Hands grab Stiles’ waist and lead him inside, all the way over to his usual music stand.  This time, however, a stagehand passes him his violin, bow, and flannel chin rest and places a second stand next to it.  

“What’s going on, Peter?” Stiles asks, searching his music stand for any sign of what they might be doing.  

“I’ve been seeing a lot of dueling this and that on YouTube lately, lots of mashups and duets, and I think it’s time I join the 21st century.”

“So you want to do a mashup?  Of what?” Stiles asks. He looks at each member of the band in turn and gets nothing but equally curious expressions.

“Not a mashup, darling,” Peter purs, snapping his fingers and letting the same stagehand give him an instrument.  “You’re going to teach me to play the violin.”

Stiles hasn’t laughed this hard in a long time.  The band is equally, if not more hysterical. Even the camera crew are silently showing their amusement.  By the time he’s done gasping for breath, Stiles has to hang the scroll of his violin on his music stand and wipe the tears away from his eyes with his flannel.

“You’re shitting me,” he says, spinning around and catching Jennifer’s eye.  She’s busy cursing Peter’s name and covering it with a cough. “Do you hear that, ladies?  And Danny,” he adds in an aside, pulling a grumble from Derek. “Frontman of the legendary Alphas, Peter fucking Hale, wants to learn violin.   _In a day_.”

“How hard can it be?” Peter says, rolling his eyes in that trademark Hale way.  

Jennifer lets out a peal of laughter so loud the rest of them start cracking up again and it takes another minute for them all to calm down.

“And not just a day,” Peter adds, frowning at the group.  “We have a few days to rehearse..”

“Oh, excuse me,” Stiles says, throwing his hands up in the air.  “A few days! That makes all the difference. You’ll have no problem!  A few days is plenty of time to learn a complex instrument and then play it in a duet on live television in front of millions of people.  Easy! You’re right. As usual.”

“I’m the best living guitarist in the world, songbird,” Peter says, looking down at his fingernails.  “I can handle a little violin. It only has four strings.”

“The number has noth—you know what?” Stiles says, smiling and putting his hands on his hips.  “Nevermind. If the great Peter Hale wants to learn the violin. I’ll teach him. That’s too precious an opportunity to give up.”

“Something to tell your grandkids about,” Danny pipes up before filling up his cheeks and blowing a sad fall into his trumpet.  The whole room laughs at the sound effect.

“You might as well go,” Stiles calls, prompting the band to pack up.  “I’ll take one for the team. Save your ears. This is going to be painful,” he says to Peter.  “You’re going to owe me big time.”

“What kind of payment are we talking here?” Peter says loudly, all but chasing Derek out of the studio.  “Personal favors?”

“What do I look like to you?  A hooker?” Stiles says, frowning.  “I’m a goddamn professional. Private lesson pricing is on a sliding scale based on income and I’ve seen your mansion on TV.  The scale is sliding all the way to the top for you, buddy.”

“How about I help you win this show and we’ll call it even,” Peter says, leaning in close so the cameraman will have a great shot for the episode preview.  

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Stiles says, turning away.  “I’m not sure anything is worth listening to you screech on the violin for hours on end.”

“We’ll see,” Peter says, picking up his instrument and promptly popping a string with one polished fingernail.  

“It’s going to be a long day.”

 

* * *

 

“And that’s lunch,” Finstock’s voice calls from somewhere.  “We’ve got plenty of this cutesy student teacher crap. Now quit making my ears bleed and make some real fucking music.  You’ve got an hour and then it’s back to work!” The shrill call of his whistle sounds and the crew departs for their break.

“Do you surrender?” Stiles asks, laying his violin down and stretching his wrists out.

Peter shakes his head dolefully, biting the inside of his cheek as he rolls his shoulders and rubs the red marks on his collarbone.  His usual V neck is understated today, plain black and only stretched out by normal wear. By Hale standards, it’s practically demure.  “I… may have overestimated my abilities.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Stiles groans.  

“I don’t understand why it’s so hard,” Peter says, dropping his violin to the padded floor like he’s hoping it will break in half, but like he’s not quite serious enough to break it over an amplifier like a guitar.  “You learned the bass in a week last month!”

“Look,” Stiles says, a small smile growing on his face.  “I know you’re trying to prove something to me here, but you don’t need to.  I know you’re cool. And more than that even, I actually _think_ you’re cool.  You don’t need to impress me.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“—yeah you were,” Stiles says, smile growing.  “It was kind of cute for the first few minutes but then you just kept murdering that poor instrument.  It was brutal. You should be charged with war crimes for what you did to that thing.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Yeah, it was,” Stiles says, grinning now.  “Just wait till Derek and Cora see the tape.  You’re never living that down.”

“Fine,” Peter says, staring angrily at the violin on the ground like it’s the one to blame.  “You win. We’ll do it your way.”

“Really?” Stiles says, gleeful.  “Like actually my way? Not just my way for the rehearsal and then you say some snide remark that makes me have to change my entire plan and wing it in front of millions of people just to shove it in your face?”

“Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time?” Peter asks, eyes twinkling in amusement.  

“I wore fucking booty shorts for you,” Stiles shouts, punching him in the pec, just to feel the muscle give under his knuckles.  “I owned that stage with my violin solo! I fucked a microphone and then I twerked with my ass in the air! For you!”

“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard, Stiles,” Peter says, snatching Stiles’ hand out of the air and pulling it to his chest.  “Really. I’m truly touched.”

“This is all your fault, you know,” Stiles says, licking his lips and staring at his fingertips as they clutch and drag against Peter’s skin.  “You stole me with that stupid 3 Bars button. If you hadn’t done that, I’d be the champion of Morrell’s team by now.”

“You think so?” Peter asks, tilting his head to peer up at Stiles’ expression.  “Because I think Kira would have kicked your ass in the second week.”

“You’re not funny,” Stiles says, leaning in further.  “I need this money. My dad is sick and my home is falling apart.  This isn’t a joke to me.”

“This isn’t a joke to me either,” Peter says, eyes wide and searching.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know it’s not, but it’s true.  This isn’t a joke to me,” Peter says, kissing him.  “You’re not a joke to me.”

“We’ve still got forty minutes of our lunch break left.  Want to go to your trailer?”

“Yes, darling.  I really, really do.”  

Taking Stiles by the hand, Peter laces their fingers together and leads him out the back door to a waiting motorcycle, and across the back lot.  Apparently, the leather gloves were for driving, of a sort.

Stiles is sure the helmets do nothing to disguise who they are, but can’t bring himself to care.  If Peter Hale kisses you, calls you important, and then takes you to his trailer for a nooner, you don’t think twice.

It’s what your mother would have wanted.  

 

* * *

 

 “Wow,” Stiles says, panting, as Peter emerges from under the blanket, black underwear tented.  “You really like me, huh?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that for weeks,” Peter groans, wiping his chin.  

“I guess I’m more of a visual learner,” Stiles remarks, licking his lips as Peter climbs over Stiles’ leg and crawls up the small mattress toward him.

“You’d think auditory would work, seeing as you are a musician,” Peter teases, setting himself down in Stiles’ lap.  

“I’m self-taught,” Stiles counters, tipping up his chin for a kiss.  “More of a solo-act kind of guy.”

“I think we make pretty good duet partners,” Peter hums, scraping his facial hair down Stiles’ throat in a trail of scratchy kisses.  

“Speaking of which,” Stiles says, turning his head to the side to look at the alarm clock, “we’re late.”

“Don’t tell me that, darling.  I’m just getting started,” Peter says, biting down hard.

“Ahh!” Stiles yelps, pulling him away by the hair.  “Not the left side! Peter!”

“What?” he asks, taking a moment to run his tongue down Stiles’ chest and latch on to one pink nipple with his teeth before releasing it.  “I thought we were supposed to look like we’re fucking. Especially now that we actually are.”

“Not the point,” Stiles moans, torn between yanking him away again and arching into the sensation.  “I’m right-handed. That’s where my violin sits.”

“Oh,” he says, pulling back to look at his handiwork.  “That’s going to hurt like a bitch then. Sorry.”

“Up!” Stiles squeaks, taking Peter’s momentary distraction as opportunity to roll to the side and scoot down the mattress.  The trailer is large, but it’s still a trailer. It takes a bit of acrobatics to maneuver, especially with another person already in the little bedroom alcove.  “We’re ten minutes late! The band will be there.”

“If you think Jennifer hasn’t waited for me to fuck someone before I made it to rehearsal, you’d be wrong.”

“Don’t be a dick, Peter.  It’s my ass on the line here, not yours.”

“That’s exactly my point, sweetheart,” Peter purs, coming up behind him and wrapping his strong arms around Stiles’ trim chest.  “Your ass is perfection. And you haven’t even seen my dick yet,” he murmurs into Stiles’ ear, pressing his package into Stiles’ ass.  “That’s a travesty.”

It’s not just hard, it’s damp.  Peter Hale is leaking, just dying to fuck him, Stiles Stilinski.  But they don’t have the time. It takes all of Stiles’ willpower to wriggle out of Peter’s arms and find his underwear.  

“Find your pants and start squeezing into them,” Stiles says, pulling a tee shirt over his head.  “I know that leather takes forever so I’ll have a head start.” He slips into his jeans and yanks them up.  Then starts digging under the sofa cushions for his socks, all the while under the amused watch of Peter, still in his underwear.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, bending down to tie his chucks.  “We still have a duet to nail down.”

“Just enjoying the view,” Peter says, leaning against the doorway.  “I’ll be happy to nail whatever you like later.”

“Less puns, more vocal runs,” Stiles groans, straightening up.  He buttons his jeans and leans in for a quick goodbye kiss.

There’s nothing quick about it.  

When Peter kisses, he takes his time.  He lingers, burying himself so deep that when you come up for air you can still feel him in your throat, on your skin, deep down in your gut.  Like a brand, Stiles can feel Peter’s cologne hanging in the air, seeping into his pores, clinging to his hair.

“What brand of cologne is that?” Stiles asks when they pull apart.  “It’s been driving me crazy. I just need to know.”

“I don’t wear cologne,” Peter says, pressing in again, trying to herd Stiles back through the doorway and onto the bed.

“No, seriously,” Stiles says, ducking under his arm and toward the exit.  “What is it? Unicorn tears? The blood of a thousand virgins? Felix Felicis?”

“I think you mean Amortentia, and no, really.  I don’t wear cologne. It makes me sneeze.”

“I hate you so much,” Stiles says, shaking his head.  One more Harry Potter reference and Stiles is going to come in his Batman briefs.  “See you in five.”

“Make it ten,” Peter says, chuckling.  “I’ll take a shower and prove it to you.”

“You do that,” Stiles says, running down the trailer’s steps before he has time to change his mind.

 

* * *

 

 Stiles rushes back into the studio, nearly tripping on the fabric flooring in his haste to reach his music stand.  

“Have a good lunch?” Cora promptly asks, drawing a big laugh from the rest of the group.

“Not bad,” Stiles says.  “Sorry, I’m late. I got a call from my dad.”

“Do you call him ‘Daddy,’ Stiles?” Danny asks, fighting down a smile.

Stiles isn’t sure why they want to know, but the sick father story has been his angle from the start, so it’s not surprising people might ask about him.  “I call him Pops, Daddio, and sometimes Sheriff, when he’s being strict.”

Cora does a drum hit like Stiles has just made a joke.

“You just can’t make this shit up!” Jennifer crows, making Derek roll his eyes and try to rein everyone in.

“If the violin duet is out, what are you doing instead?” he asks, flipping through some sheet music like he’s looking for a backup plan.

“ _Layla_ ,” Stiles says, pulling the title out of thin air.  They hadn’t had time to discuss it, but Peter told him he could do it his way, and the idea just came to him.  “On violin and guitar. Acoustic and then maybe electric. Shared solos in harmony, splitting the verses, together or call and response on the chorus.  We’ll work that bit out when Peter gets here. And we better get the last slot of the episode. I’m not letting Theo get the last word this time.”

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” Derek says, shaking his head.  “You don’t just cover Clapton. And especially not _Layla_.”

“That’s sacred ground, kid,” Braeden agrees, playing the opening riff quickly on her bass.  “You don’t play _Layla_. _Layla_ plays you.”

“We can handle it,” Peter says, entering the room. His hair is wet, rivulets dripping down the back of his neck and his shoulders to stream over his bare chest.  

Stiles wants to say something, but it’s not like anyone expects Peter to cover up.  The deep V is his signature, and the suspenders, while ridiculous, were not off brand.  Showing up to set with a completely nude, wet torso though? This is pushing it a little far.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says, stepping forward to kiss both of Stiles’ cheeks like they’ve just landed in Pairs.  He lingers on the second cheek, gripping Stiles’ elbows and leaning in to whisper, “You took my shirt.”

 

* * *

 

 “Peter?” Stiles says blearily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  “What are you doing here?”

“You interrupted me earlier,” Peter says, slipping out of his shoes and reaching over his head to pull his shirt off.  “I wasn’t nearly finished with you.”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning!” Stiles hisses, finally getting his eyes to focus on the clock.  His night vision is horrendous.

“I had to wait until your babysitters took a break,” Peter says, pulling Stiles’ comforter back and reaching for his fly simultaneously.  “It’s like you’re a virgin in an ivory tower or something, I swear. Way to make a guy feel like he’s robbing the—is that my shirt? You’re still wearing it?”

“It smells like you,” Stiles admits, pulling his knees up to his chest when the cold air hits his bare legs.  

“You really like me, huh?” Peter says, popping the button of his jeans and kicking them off.

“That’s my line,” Stiles says, licking his lips as Peter reveals that he skipped underwear.  

“Didn’t want you to miss the dick this time,” he says, cocking his head to the side and grinning.

“Very kind of you,” Stiles gulps, eyes roving.  “That would have been a shame. It’s a hell of a dick, Peter.”

“Thank you,” he says, climbing into bed as soon as Stiles comes to his senses and shifts over.  “It’s served me well over the years.”

“And how many years has that been, exactly?”

“Let’s not go there,” Peter says, running a hand over Stiles’ hair and down to cup his cheek.  “You’ve already got a father, I’ve already got a son your age, I don’t need another.”

“Agreed,” Stiles says simply, holding out a pinky for Peter to swear upon.  “Never again mention my father while your dick is out and we’re golden.”

“Deal,” Peter says, shaking Stiles’ pinky.  “Now, how about I get you out of these?” he asks, dragging their linked fingers down to Stiles’ waist to hook them into his Slytherin briefs.  “Keep the V neck on?” he adds.

Stiles raises his eyebrows and grins.  “If you make it smell any more like you, I’ll never want to take it off.”

“I have a few ideas.”

“I bet they’re filthy.”

“They most certainly are.”

 

* * *

 

”You think I should play the piano tomorrow?” Stiles asks a few hours later when they’re both sated a few times over.  His lips tingle from kissing so long, and the dry mouth is getting hard to ignore.

They’ll have to get up soon for water and a bathroom break, but for now, Stiles can’t pull himself away from his spot on Peter’s chest, one ear pressed against the skin, entire body rising and falling with each of Peter’s breaths.  He’s nestled between Peter’s spread thighs, sticky, but warm and happy and more comfortable than he’s been since his father got shot.

“We don’t have eight minutes, sweetheart.  Something is going to have to go.”

“You can’t cut out the piano section!  It’s what makes the whole song!”

“Maybe let Jennifer do it?  Focus on the violin. It’s really where you shine.”

“You’ve only heard me play the piano twice and on a song you chose.  I don’t think you can make a final judgment on that alone.”

“Oh, like you didn’t make a snap judgment about me when we first met?”

“That’s not my fault,” Stiles says, pushing himself up so he can look at Peter directly.  “I couldn’t afford to get distracted! My father needs me to get this done. He made me promise not to get involved with you.”

“And how often do you do what your father tells you?” Peter asks, eyebrows raised.  

“Almost never,” Stiles says with a shrug.

“And you decided that when I asked you out would be a good time to start?”

“You never asked me out!” Stiles argues.  

“I said I found someone to be with, Stiles,” Peter says taking a deep breath and letting it out before continuing.  “I said I was going to love you and take care of you. Did you not think that offer came complete with dates? Love and commitment are a bigger deal than asking someone out, darling.  I asked you to _be with me_.”

“You did, didn’t you?” Stiles says, ducking his head and burying his face in Peter’s throat.  “And you meant that?”

“I did,” Peter says, running his hands down Stiles’ back in a soothing movement.  “Didn’t you hear? Apparently, I hung up my dick a long time ago.”

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” Stiles groans, nipping at Peter’s collarbone in retaliation.

“Not once you told your father.  There are cameras everywhere, my sweet little songbird.  The trees have ears. Private phone calls are not private.”

“I thought we agreed to never discuss my father when your dick was out.  You pinky swore.”

Peter clucks his tongue, tutting again.  

Stiles isn’t sure what it says about him, but he finds that he likes it, the soft disapproval, the fondness of it.  Whatever that is, he’ll unpack it later with Lydia after all this is over.

“You’re the one that brought him up this time,” he says, shaking his head.  “I was talking about the music.”

”Right,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.  “The music is the only high you’ll ever need.  You told me that weeks ago.”

“And I meant it,” Peter says, running one hand through Stiles’ sweaty hair.  “It’s very important to me. I still remember where I was the very first time I heard _Stairway_.  It changed my life.”

Stiles hums in acknowledgment, waiting for something.  He knows there’s more to it than that. There has to be.  Sure, Peter is a world-famous musician, a legend in his own right, but the way he speaks about music, it’s more than a passion, more than a job, more than his life.  

Stiles wants to know, so he waits.  Pressing soft kisses to Peter’s throat, nuzzling into him, he waits.  

Time ticks by, so much of it that Stiles feels like he might be waiting forever for Peter to elaborate.  It slowly becomes clear that he has to ask if he wants to know, so he asks.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Stiles says, hot breath hitting the gleam of sweat on Peter’s skin.  It’s enough to make the man shiver beneath him, but still, he doesn’t speak.

“You don’t have to protect me,” Stiles says, pulling back to look at Peter’s face.  “I know I’m young and you probably think I’m sheltered because I’ve never done hard drugs or been arrested by someone that wasn’t related to me, but I’m still an adult.  I know what it’s like to lose everything. Whatever you want to say, whatever you’re holding back… whatever you _want_ me to know—I can handle it.”

Peter looks at him, really looks, blue eyes guarded as he makes his decision.  

Stiles waits some more.  Now though, when it’s really important, he doesn’t mind the silence.  He’ll give Peter as much time as he needs to decide if he’s going to trust him.  If Stiles can be someone Peter Hale wants to let his guard down for, he’ll consider himself very lucky.

“I met Deuc when I was young,” he says finally, letting his eyes slip closed—whatever it takes to make the words come easier.  “Ennis too. We didn’t quite grow up together, they were from nearby towns though and we found each other easy enough. I called the number on a paper flyer.  They were looking for a lead guitarist for their Zeppelin cover band.”

“It was the 70s.  I was a stupid kid and already a lost cause as far as my parents were concerned.  My sister, Talia was the golden child. When we started getting paying gigs, I moved out, lived with the guys.  We were one of the first tribute bands on the L.A. circuit. I was only 17 and the freedom kind of went to my head.”

“The thing is, we were really good,” he says, eyes flicking open to convey the seriousness of the claim.  “We were just kids but we had talent. I could cover Jimmy Page and people believed it.”

“I know you could,” Stiles agrees, taking Peter’s hand.  “I’ve heard the ancient live tracks on YouTube.”

“They’re not ancient!”

“They’re kind of ancient,” Stiles says, laughing.  “If it’s remastered off reel to reel in some dude’s basement, it’s ancient.”

“My point is, we were doing well.  Well enough to expand, start covering other bands.  We found Kali a few years later and having a female lead to sing with me opened a lot of doors for us.  By the time I was twenty we got picked up by an agent and the next thing we knew our first album made the cover of Rolling Stone.”

“We were just a bunch of kids with practically infinite money.  Touring was one giant sleepover with all of your friends for months on end.  Drugs, alcohol, sex, whatever you wanted, it was right there. And after the first album, the next few just spilled out of us.   _The Bite_ went platinum in a week and The _Red Album_ in just two days.  Then there were more tours.  We were on the road for years, trying to write in cramped little busses, wrecking hotel rooms.  Playing concerts high, sleeping off benders, paying fines—it was all second nature. No big deal.  Just another day at work.”

“We played Live Aid when I was just 22 years old.  Can you imagine that?”

“Seeing as I am 24 right now and two years ago I was tutoring and bussing tables, trying to keep myself in school part time, no.  I can’t really imagine that,” Stiles says, a fond huff of air escaping his nose.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says quickly.  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know you didn’t,” Stiles says, squeezing his hand.  “Go ahead. Tell me about your wild, misspent youth.”

“I was an addict, Stiles.  I’m not trying to be flippant about it.  It’s just the truth,” he says, hurt coloring his voice.  “I’m sure it sounds amazing from your perspective, and it was for a long time, the parties and the sex and the celebrity.  But it all catches up to you eventually. Live Aid is where I met Chris Argent.”

“You started dating before I was born,” Stiles says, shaking his head.  It sounds ridiculous when he lays it all out on the table. The two of them together will never work.  

Peter met his ex-husband at one of the most important concerts of all time.  It’s like Stiles saying he met Scott at Woodstock. Those events, those places, the people you meet at the important junctures of your life… they mean something.  You don’t just walk away from relationships like that.

“Try not to focus on that part,” Peter says, watching carefully as Stiles does the math in his head.  “I know it’s a lot, but just hear me out.”

Stiles nods, swallowing down every instinct he has, every word spoken in his father’s voice, every disapproving look from Chris Argent, every twist in his gut that says this is a bad idea.  He nods and lets Peter say what he needs to say. Stiles can give him that.

“We had a few wild weeks in Europe, but we didn’t cross paths again for a long time.  The Alphas were traveling all over the world in those years, but country musicians tend to stay in the United States.  We picked up Jennifer on keys in ‘86, watched Bowie play at the Berlin wall in ‘87, and had another three platinum albums and world tours before I met Chris again.”

“He was already married when I ran into him on the red carpet at the ‘92 Grammys.  The Alphas were winding down at that point. Music was changing and we didn’t change with it.  Deuc and I got into a fight about choosing a new direction, tried to blame it on my relationship with Chris when I refused to compromise, and that’s where I drew the line.  You can blame whatever you like on me, but once you start dragging other people into it, the people I love, you’re dead to me.

“We limped along for a few more years, barely speaking to each other.  Deuc called Chris ‘Yoko.’ It was torture. We’d do a farewell tour, say we were calling it quits, and then we’d get our cut of the ticket sales and decide we could do one more.  I think we did farewell tours for three years before finally ending it in 1999.”

 _Fuck_ , Stiles thinks.  Peter lived an entire life before he even made it to middle school.  

“Being on the road all the time was hard.  Chris and I were in love but he was married and had a daughter, Allison.  I wouldn’t ask him to ruin a marriage for me. They finally divorced in 2000 and we kind of went off the deep end for a few years.  We could finally be together, no guilt, no angry bandmates, no responsibilities...

“It was chaos.  Every night was a party, every day a celebration.  We took vacations wherever we wanted, whenever we wanted.  Flew in private planes, bought boats, raced motorcycles… Lived the life of nomadic bachelors until we got caught with drugs at the airport.  The dogs will get you every time,” he huffs with a dark chuckle.

“Chris said we had to sober up—get on track.  He had a daughter he barely saw because we were such drunk fuckups.  So we went to rehab. A lot. Several times. I’d slip up and drag him back down and it was a horrible cycle.  It wasn’t until the fire happened that I really woke up.”

“The fire?” Stiles asks.  

“I can’t believe you don’t know about this,” Peter says, shaking his head and closing his eyes.  “You did all that research, you strategized, planned every little detail… You’re a walking encyclopedia of music trivia, and you didn’t know about the fire?”

“To be fair,” Stiles says, a smirk forming on his lips, “you did just say you fell out of the spotlight in the late 90s.  I was ten.”

“Fair enough,” Peter says, shrugging.  “We did try to keep it a quiet, but news got out and then there was an MTV News segment about it and there was no stopping it.”  

“Well, that’s your problem right there.  MTV News is also ancient.”

“They still exist.  Trust me, I’ve been interviewed by them a thousand times.  They still exist. That’s not the point,” Peter says emphatically.  “The point is, my parents’ house burnt down. Bad wiring, they said, but some people suspected foul play, it was never proven.  Eight people died. My parents, Derek and Cora’s parents, three of their siblings, and my favorite aunt, Lottie.”

“They all died?” Stiles asks, having trouble believing it.  He’s baffled. Surely Lydia or he would have seen some mention of such a tragedy while they researched the show.  But they hadn’t. They missed it entirely, and now Peter had to lay it all out for him like a history lesson.

_Today in rock music, Alphas frontman Peter Hale loses everything._

“They died and I finally got my act together.  I had Derek and Cora to think about,” Peter says, taking a deep breath.  “They didn’t want much to do with me. Angry that I’d never been around, never visited home.  But we made it work. Chris and I got back on the right track and we made a family.”

“When was that?” Stiles asks, trying to put all the pieces together.

“2005,” Peter says, “January 12th, 2005.”

“Not long after my mother died,” Stiles remarks, laying the events out in order like Polaroids in his mind.  

“I was due to make an appearance at Live 8 that year.  A bit of a comeback attempt for me, but for a good cause.  It was supposed to be like Live Aid 2—or so they said—but I never made it.  Cora was small then, younger even than Allison. I wouldn’t leave her.”

“You raised them…”

“No,” Peter laughs freely, shaking off the gloom of the conversation.  “They raised themselves. That attitude is all Hale. We come out of the womb like that, all sass and brooding eyebrows.”

“But you taught Derek to play guitar,” Stiles says, not a question.

“He needed an outlet,” Peter says easily.  “It wasn’t me driving him so much as his mother, all that pain.  He worked hard at it, practiced hours a day. What he can do now?  All that talent? I just gave him a push, that’s all him.”

“And Cora?”

“She tried college for a bit, but it didn’t stick.  I wasn’t going to force her. She’s happy here,” Peter says, relaxing beneath Stiles again, combing through his hair sedately.  

“You like to stick together, don’t you?” Stiles asks, the fuzzy picture he had of Peter’s past slowly coming into focus.  

“Family is family.  Wherever they are is where I want to be,” he says with a small smile.

“And Chris?” Stiles asks.  “I can’t help but notice that Chris also manages to be where you are.  Does that make him family still?”

“We have history, and I can’t help that,” Peter says, letting out a deep breath.  “We got married as soon as they made it legal in California and it was great for a while.  We got Allison every other weekend and she loved spending time with Derek. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they ended up dating, but he moved to New York for a few years to attend Julliard and I… hated it.  I went off the deep end.”

Stiles doesn’t want to pass judgment, but he’s seen what alcohol did to his father, what it means to live with a substance abuser.  He’s not sure he could do that again, not for Peter, not for anyone.

“Did you start using again?”

“No,” Peter assures him easily.  “I’ve been sober since 2005. This was more of a manic phase.  Cora was always out with friends and Chris was away and out of touch, started touring again.  I’d never expected it to be an issue, seeing as how I had no intention of ever settling down, but empty nest syndrome hit me hard.  I couldn’t stand to be alone.”

The wording is troublesome to Stiles, but he’s already been wrong once in the last twenty seconds so he gives Peter the time to explain himself instead of jumping to conclusions again.  

“I was going insane.  I wrote an entire album of horrible emo music, I redecorated our home, I started fucking gardening!  It was madness.”

“I can’t picture you gardening,” Stiles says, chuckling.  “Do you own overalls? Designer galoshes? Or did you just do it naked and get dirt all up in your asscrack?”

“Of course not,” Peter says, fighting down a laugh.  “I garden in leather or in nothing.”

“So nothing, then,” Stiles says, laughing harder now.

“If you must know, I wore Christopher’s camouflage.  I ruined as many of his favorite pieces as I could.”

“I’d pay good money to see you in a hunting outfit.”

“We’re getting off track.  Back to your question,” Peter says.

“There are totally photos of you in his cowboy boots and nothing else.  Or at least the hat—that stupid fucking hat. There must be.”

“Moving on,” Peter says, shaking his head.  “I asked if I could come out on tour with him, just for something to do, and he said no.  I should have known something was up, but I didn’t want to see it. If I didn’t ask it was like it wasn’t happening.”

“He was cheating?” Stiles has to ask.  He just has to know what caused the antagonism between Peter and his ex.

“Cheating would be one word for it.  Backsliding would be another,” Peter says with a pointed look.

“ _He_ started using again?” Stiles asks.

“Wrong again,” Peter says, pursing his lips, making Stiles wait for the punchline.  “He got back with his ex-wife.”

“Allison’s mom?”

“The loathsome wretch herself,” Peter says, raising his eyebrows.  “She’s the third worst person in the world.”

“Who are the first two?” Stiles asks, narrowing his eyes.

“That’s a story for another day.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Stiles says, smiling all too fondly at the man below him.  

He’s completely fucked.  He can almost hear Lydia’s voice in his head.   _Late night confessions and adorable banter post-coitus?  That’s true love right there._

“So that’s why you and Argent divorced?  He started sleeping with his ex again?”

“I don’t think they’re even together anymore, so that wasn’t the real reason.  Him going back to her, it was probably inevitable. I was the affair, not her. And I was no peach toward the end myself, make no mistake about that.  Christopher’s band still loved him and he got to tour and do interviews and jetset and I was washed up. I was obscenely jealous, cruelly so.”

“People love you.  You’re still on everyone’s cheat list,” Stiles says, though he’s not quite sure why he’s doing it.  Was it normal to tell your significant other how fuckable people found him? “You could walk down the street and pick up whoever you wanted right now.”

“That’s very sweet of you to say, but it was more about the career than the fame.  I felt useless. Like an old man they rolled out every once in a while to give an award or play a lick—completely irrelevant.  I needed to have a purpose again. So I signed to this show.”

“To find a young boyfriend to rub in your ex’s face?” Stiles asks, amusement growing at the ridiculousness of their situation.

“To coach young talent.  To show the world I still had some use.  To rekindle my passion for music,” Peter lists, volume growing with every item.  

Stiles eyes him with skepticism.

“And apparently to also find a young boyfriend to rub in my ex’s face.”

“That’s what I thought,” Stiles says, laughing.

“It’s not my fault!  I signed to the show before I knew he would be a coach.  He didn’t know I would be here either. The producers pushed us together for the drama.  They orchestrated the whole thing.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Stiles grumbles.  “They’ve been fucking with me this entire time.  The whole thing is rigged.”

“You’re talking about Boyd,” Peter says knowingly.

“Of course I’m talking about Boyd,” Stiles says, rolling off of Peter to hop off the bed and pace the room.  “He deserved to win this thing and getting kicked off for some smarmy asshole like Theo? It’s completely unfair!”

“You don’t think that last song choice was suspicious?”

“ _Isn’t She Lovely_?  It’s a classic and he did a fantastic job.”

“It was his coach’s choice,” Peter reminds him.  “Erica chose that song.”

“Oh my God!” Stiles nearly shouts, finally putting it all together.  “They’re totally fucking!”

“It’s not out of the question,” Peter says, gesturing between the two of them, both still completely nude.  “I was able to sneak in here with little trouble.”

“That’s only because there’s so few of us left we all have our own rooms now.  If this was a few weeks ago, Jackson and the twins would still be in here!”

“Let’s agree to add Jackson to the list of people we don’t talk about while my dick is out,” Peter says quickly, disgust crossing his face.

“Agreed,” Stiles says easily, doing a whole body roll to shake the idea off himself.  “How is he doing by the way? Or, how are you doing with that, I guess I should ask.”

“He’s doing fine.  Seeing someone new.  Things are going very well for them, I hear.  Thanks for asking, and by the way what the fuck did we just agree to?”

“Yikes,” Stiles says, shivering again.  “You’re right. No more Jackson talk. Or better yet, let’s put some clothes on.”

“Actually,” Peter says, glancing over his shoulder at the clock.  “I think I should leave.”

“Fuck.  You’re right again.  It’s probably already daylight.”

“Walk me out?” Peter asks, hopping off the bed to find his pants.

The phrase just sounds so adult to Stiles’ ears.  Yes, he is an adult, but Peter is a whole other type of an adult.  The type with ex-spouses and kids. The kind that would hold doors open for you and call you darling and probably invite you up for a nightcap—if he still drank.  

“Of course,” Stiles says, quickly shaking that idea out of his mind.  

They dress, shooting smitten smiles at each other every few seconds.  By the time Stiles has his pajamas back on, Peter is fully dressed including his shoes.  

“I do like the look of that,” he says, pulling Stiles in by the hem of his borrowed v-neck.  “Let’s get out of here before I throw you back on the bed and do this whole night over again.”

“Fuck, that sounds amazing, but we’re due to be in the studio in an hour and I need to take a shower,” Stiles says, allowing Peter to kiss up his throat and over to his mouth.  

“Try not to wear my clothes this time,” he says, voice pitched low.  “Especially not that shirt,” he adds between kisses. “It’s filthy.”

“I wonder why,” Stiles laughs against Peter’s mouth, dragging himself away by sheer force of will.  Linking their hands, he pulls Peter from the room and into the kitchen, desperate for the glass of water he should have gotten hours ago.  

“I’ll see you in an hour,” Peter says, pushing Stiles up against the nearest counter for one last, long, scorching kiss.  

“Yeah,” he says dumbly when they finally break apart, puffy-lipped and hard again.  “I-I’ll see you in an hour,” Stiles says, coughing the dryness from his throat.

Peter starts to walk away, but before he makes it to the stairs, he comes back for one more kiss.  It’s shorter this time, but no less passionate. It feels like a promise, something gentle meant to last Stiles through the day until they can be alone again.  

“Goodbye,” Peter says, capturing his lips one last time before departing.

Stiles watches him go, staring at the staircase for a full minute, trying to relive the sensation of that last kiss—the swoop he felt in his stomach when Peter came back for it, like one more just wasn’t enough.

Finally, when his eyes start to droop and he finds it hard to swallow, Stiles gets himself a glass of water, chugs it down, fills it again, and then takes it back to his room to get ready for the day.

 

* * *

 

 “You guys are so stupid, I can’t even tell you,” Scott says, kicking back on Melissa’s couch as he opens a beer.  

“Really Scotty?” Stiles asks, shaking his head at the way Scott’s beer foams up and spills out of his mouth.  “You’re talking to me like I got caught with my pants down.”

“You did get caught with your pants down!  In the kitchen!”

“I meant metaphorically.  I knew exactly what I was doing.  We’re doing it for the ratings, obviously,” Stiles says, propping his phone up on a pillow—a pillow that still smells like Peter.

“You can tell yourself that, but I know you,” Scott says, a wide, puppy dog grin growing on his face.  “That’s not how you kiss for a camera. That’s how you kiss when you’re in love.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?  How do you know how I kiss people?”

“We used to practice kissing when we were kids, don’t even front.  If any of your friends know how you kiss, it’s me.”

“First of all, I only have two friends, so that’s not saying much.  And second of all, WE WERE FIVE! You can’t hold that over my head forever.  You just can’t.”

“You’re my brother and I love you, but I am absolutely talking about that when I’m best man at your and Peter Hale’s wedding.”

“We’re not getting married!” Stiles shouts, exasperated.  “He’s been married before and it ended badly, I’m sure he wouldn’t want to get married again.  Plus we’ve only spent one night together. That’s not exactly true love.”

“So you’re thinking about it,” Scott says, jumping on the wrong part of the sentence.  “You’re totally thinking about marrying him!”

“I’m hanging up on you and calling Lydia.”

“No, wait!” Scott says, lunging forward.  More of his beer escapes his can and spills onto the coffee table.  “Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing that I’m going to tell you about,” Stiles says, tight-lipped.

“You don’t have to tell me about the sex parts, just… what’s he like?” Scott asks.  When he doesn’t get an answer right away, he pushes. “I’m your best friend, I just want to know if he’s good enough for you.”

“He’s Peter fucking Hale.  He’s a millionaire with a giant penis,” Stiles says sharply, like this settles things.  “He’s perfect.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Scott says, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “What kind of person is he?”

“I don’t know, Scotty.  He’s…” Stiles trails off, searching for the right words, any words at all that could sum up Peter Hale.  “He’s been around the block a time or two thousand and he knows what he wants, and apparently it’s me.”

“You mean long term,” Scott says.  “He wants a relationship?”

“I think he might love me, bro,” Stiles says, fighting down the lump in his throat.  He is not going to cry about this. Not while talking to Scott. Once Scott knows, once the feelings are out there for someone else to see, it all becomes too real.

“You had the night,” Scott says, smile growing.  He’s all dimples and sunshine, it’s disgusting, really.

“That is not a real thing,” Stiles argues, going on the offense.  “Just because it happened once on _Friends_ doesn’t make it a real thing.”

“It so does,” Scott says, nodding emphatically.  “You had the night and you’re in love and you’re going to be together forever.”

“Scott, I’m begging you, it’s not like that,” Stiles says, though he can already tell it’s a lie.  “Plus, didn’t that girl leave Joey like immediately in that episode? Not exactly a ringing endorsement, dude.”

“I have a feeling,” Scott says, dimples flashing again.  “I think it’s all going to work out. You and Peter, me and Allison, Lydia and whoever it is she’s dating that she won’t tell me about.”

“Lydia’s dating someone?” Stiles asks, incredulous.  “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”

“Because you’ve been busy having sex with celebrities?”

“Not celebrities, plural.  Just the one celebrity,” Stiles corrects him immediately.  “I’m not some sort of Hit List trollop.”

“Nah, I hear that’s Kira,” Scott says conversationally.

“What?”

“Mom’s home from her shift.  I’ve got to go unless you want an interrogation from her, too.”

“No thanks,” Stiles says, ending the call more confused than when he started it.

 

* * *

 

 From the very first note, Stiles knows this is something special.  

No one has seen Peter play an acoustic guitar live in decades.  The hush that accompanies his opening solo feels electric. When he makes it to the beat the fans recognize, the crowd’s reverence turns to excitement, bleeding into a roar that makes Stiles’ stomach quiver.

By the time he comes in with his violin, cutting through the noise, clear as a bell, Erica Reyes is already on her feet screaming and fist-pumping, the audience not far behind her.  

 

“What'll you do when you get lonely

And no one’s waiting by your side?

You've been running and hiding much too long

You know it's just your foolish pride”

 

Stiles sings the first verse low and slow, a smile playing at his lips just for the sheer joy of it—the magnitude of the moment.  He’s playing _Layla_ with Peter Hale, singing it _to_ Peter Hale, this is the stuff dreams are made of.  If this doesn’t get them to #1 on iTunes, there’s something seriously wrong with the universe.  This is history in the making and it feels incredible.

The backup singers will come later.  Jennifer and Braden will lend their smooth tone to the title word the second time around, but for now, it’s just Stiles.  And he’s having trouble remembering to say the woman’s name when every fiber of him wants to say Peter’s name instead.

 

“Layla”

 

“You've got me on my knees”

 

“Layla”

 

“I'm begging, darling please”

 

“Layla”

 

“Darling won't you ease my worried mind”

 

The endearments slip so easily from Peter’s lips because he’s used them with Stiles before.  He uses them every day, every rehearsal, every interview. He uses them in bed between strokes and kisses.  They feel just as monumental through the eternal lyrics of Eric Clapton as they do when Peter chooses to use them himself.

 

“I tried to give you consolation

When your old man had let you down

Like a fool, I fell in love with you

Turned my whole world upside down”

 

Peter’s eyes never leave his.  It’s stark and intimate. He does it exactly the same way they rehearsed alone, but they’re not alone.  There are thousands of people in the room, millions at home watching, and yet Peter does it the exact same way, with a startling combination of adoration and desperation.  

He’s seated, a beautiful amber acoustic in his lap, rocking back and forth to the beat as he strums the easy rhythm, leaning into the microphone when it’s his turn to sing.  His bare throat pulses and constricts every time he opens his mouth, that gravely strain eeking out to answer Stiles’ call.

It’s almost painful to watch, to listen to—how much emotion Stiles gets from Peter.  Stiles falls into it like a continuous loop, an echo chamber that amplifies every confused feeling he can’t name until he feels like he won’t be able to sing for want of breath.

And then Peter winks at him and his chest expands, lungs full of equal parts hope and longing.  Half of him wants the performance to be over so they can run back to Peter’s trailer and fall into the tiny bed alcove, but the other half wants to savor every second.  A large part of Stiles never wants this track to end. He wants more of this—this all-encompassing, overwhelming feeling of being swept away.

He wants more of Peter Hale.

 

“Layla”

 

“You've got me on my knees”

 

“Layla”

 

“I'm begging, darling please”

 

“Layla”

 

“Darling won't you ease my worried mind”

 

It would be so easy.  Stiles can see himself slipping, like that split second where you think, if I took my hands off the wheel, I’d veer into oncoming traffic.  He could do it. It fits perfectly. With two syllables he could ruin a classic song, a legendary song. Stiles could make an idiot out of himself, show his entire hand, all with two syllables.

Peter.

Not Layla.  

_Peter._

 

“Let's make the best of the situation

Before I finally go insane

Please don't say I'll never find a way

And tell me all my love's in vain”

 

There is so much eye contact.

Stiles has to wonder if Peter is like this with everyone.  Maybe this is how older men get you. They look into your soul and draw you in with their classic good looks, chiseled physique, and epic guitar skills.  Maybe this is exactly how Chris Argent felt in 1985 when Peter Hale played for him in the opening of a panel van under the yellow glow of a dirty streetlamp.  Maybe this is how Peter Hale has seduced every single one of his many, many conquests.

Maybe.

 

“Layla”

 

“You've got me on my knees”

 

“Layla’

 

“I'm begging, darling please”

 

“Layla”

 

“Darling won't you ease my worried mind”

 

Maybe, for once in his life, Stiles gets to be the exception to the rule.  Maybe his father is wrong. Maybe sweet, optimistic Scott is finally right.  Maybe this is his perfectly gay rock and roll fairy tale romance. Maybe, just maybe, the curtain drops and they’re still in love with each other.

The drums kick in and Peter switches out his acoustic for an electric, wailing over the second chorus.  The crowd lights up, screaming their names, thrashing around as the familiar riff grows in volume.

Fighting down the urge to wipe his brow with his flannel, Stiles grabs his microphone stand with his sweaty bow hand and growls out the words one last time.

 

“Layla”

 

“You've got me on my knees”

 

“Layla”

 

“I'm begging, darling please”

 

“Layla”

 

“Darling won't you ease my worried mind”

 

He makes it.  Stiles makes it through the last chorus without fucking up the lyrics and brings his instrument up for an abridged version of Clapton’s famous guitar solo.  It’s wild and manic for the first twenty seconds, but when he brings it down slowly on the trademark fall, it softens into something serene and beautiful.

Stiles doesn’t even think.  He just plays. Whatever it is, it’s enough to get him a standing ovation from Morrell.  

As Jennifer begins playing the piano interlude, Peter smiles at him, a wide, toothy, giddy thing that has no business being on his face.  

Stiles wants to kiss it off, but now is not the time.  Instead, he brings his violin back to his chin, fighting down a blush and joins Peter’s electric for their joint instrumental section.  

The violin and guitar sound amazing together.  Stiles takes the higher part, sliding all the way up his E string to layer over Peter’s melody.  As they sway and bob to the beat, glancing quickly between their fingers and each other with satisfied smirks on their faces, Stiles knows that as soon as the song ends, things will never be the same.  Just like Peter hearing _Stairway to Heaven_ for the first time, Stiles knows he will always remember this moment.  

Stiles will never forget how it felt to play _Layla_ in perfect synchronicity with Peter Hale on this stage with all of America watching.

They drag it out as long as humanly possible.  If Stiles had his way, this would never end, but eventually, Finstock’s voice comes through his earpiece screaming at him to wrap it up.  

Peter must hear it too, because he smiles and kicks it up a notch, fingers moving faster and faster as the crowd spurs him on.  

It’s challenging, but Stiles keeps up, matching him note for note, turning his head just slightly to hone into it, like if he just feels the vibrations he’ll be able to anticipate Peter’s next move.  

Finally, Derek must signal the band to wrap it up because the piano slows and Stiles and Peter are forced to follow the tempo, wide vibratos diminishing until they’re wavering in synch.  The last note feels like an eternity, but ever so slowly, it fades out into oblivion.

Peter unplugs his guitar and steps forward, swinging it around to his side so he has an arm free to pull Stiles into a sweaty embrace.  “You are unbelievable,” he whispers, even though they’ve both moved away from their stand mics. “That was... “

“I know,” Stiles agrees, feeling close to tears.  “It was.”

“I don’t know about you,” Allison says, practically running on stage to wrap up the episode, “But I’m speechless!”  

The crowd roars their disagreement.  Even Chris Argent is giving them a slow, reluctant clap.

“Thank you to Stiles Stilinski and Peter Hale for closing out the show with an unforgettable rendition of _Layla_.  Tune in tomorrow at 8 for our reveal of the four finalists of Hit Single!  Goodnight!”

“CUT!” Finstock yells, blowing hard into his whistle, Greenberg hot on his heels.  

Stiles is sure he’s about to be scolded, but instead, he gets a hug.

“That was some good shit, Bilinski.  Some real good shit,” he says, patting Stiles hard on the back.  “You two made this cupcake real proud,” he adds, dragging Peter in.  “But you,” Finstock says starting in on Allison. “You’re speechless?  You said words! Whole sentences even! You’re not speechless! The host is never speechless!”  He chases her off the stage, ranting about Silent Princess flowers, blowing his whistle in sharp little beats that echo the click of Allison’s heels on the floor.

“Impressive,” Chris Argent says, settling his gambler back on his head.

This man says more with one word than anyone else Stiles has ever met.

“Thank you,” Peter says, stepping right next to Stiles.

The action is deliberate and it sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine.  Peter is creating a unified front. He sees them as a couple, even in front of his ex-husband.  It’s just one more drip in the bucket of evidence that Scott was right about them. That Stiles wasn’t making a huge mistake getting involved with Peter.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, kid,” Argent says, speaking directly to Stiles.  “This business… it could ruin you.”

“Are you referring to the music industry, or me?” Peter asks, a banal smile on his perfectly stubbled face.

“Both,” Chris says, raising his eyebrows so high they bunch up under the brim of his hat.

“Thanks for the tip, but I know what I’m doing,” Stiles says cooly.  He doesn’t. He’s not sure of anything anymore, but after spending time with Peter, after _the night_ , he’s willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.  What he feels for Peter is too big to ignore or brush aside.  It consumes him.

“You don’t,” Chris says, shaking his head.  “But it’s cute that you think you do.”

He walks away without another word, boots heavy on the stage, their clunk diminishing with each step until he ducks out the door.  

“Trailer?” Peter asks, holding out a hand to Stiles, the other still supporting the guitar strapped to his side.  

Stiles stares at the hand for all of three seconds, wondering what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, before taking it.  “Fuck it,” he says, knowing he’s playing with fire. “Let’s go.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

“I can’t believe you won a car!” Scott shouts through the speaker of Stiles’ cell phone.  

“Yeah, at least if everything else goes to shit I’ll have a nice new RAV4 to sell for rent money,” Stiles says, pacing around the patio.  

“Don’t think like that,” Scott says, rustling around in his bedroom.  “You can beat them, I know you can.”

“Theo and Isaac, maybe, but Kira’s doing amazing.  She’s the favorite to win.”

“You’re bringing Boyd back for your friend duet, right?”

“We’re supposed to meet in an hour to go over our number, yeah.”

“He’s the best person that got kicked off.  Your duet will be amazing and your solo finale song will be even better and you’ll shoot straight to the top of the charts, I know it.”

“That’s not how it works, Scotty,” Stiles says, running himself around in circles.  “The finale is a live vote. It’s basically a popularity contest. The polls are open the whole episode and people get picked off one by one until there’s only one person left standing.”

“So it’s like Thunderdome.”

“That is absolutely not what happens in Thunderdome, but sure, it’s like Thunderdome,” Stiles says brusquely.  “We need to expand your classic movie catalog.” It’s something Peter could probably help with, actually. They could put his age to good use.

“After you win the prize money, we can buy as many shitty $3 DVDs out of the bin at Wal-Mart as you want.”

“We could order from the good pizza place again and not have to suffer through the $5.99 special at Dominos.”

“You like Dominos!”

“Not the point, Scotty.  The point is, I need to win and the other three are going to pull out all the stops, so I have to, too!”

“We’re heading to the airport now,” Scott says, the sound of his duffle bag zippering just audible beneath his voice.  “Lydia and I will be there in a few hours and we’ll help you work out a plan. Just don’t panic.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“You’re 100% panicking, but I love you anyway.”

“Love you too, bro.”

 

* * *

 

”Did you like that?” Allison yells unnecessarily over the screaming crowd.  “I think they liked it,” she giggles, patting Boyd on the shoulder.

“We wanted to do something different,” Stiles explains, clutching the body of his violin to his body with one arm.  “Kind of a mix of genres. Something that felt fresh.”

“I’ve never heard rapping and bluegrass together like that before,” Allison gushes, flashing her dimples to the camera.  “It was incredible, right?” she asks the audience again, getting a chorus of screams in response.

“I have to thank Boyd,” Stiles says, holding out a fist for him to bump.  “He never got the chance to show this side of his style, and that was a damn shame because he was amazing.”

“Thanks, Stilinski,” Boyd says, and it’s no wonder he didn’t make it very far.  His delivery is stiff and guarded. Singing competitions are a rough gig if you’re a quiet person.  Reserved is great for intimate interviews and live Spotify recordings, but it can’t possibly cut through the screams and pyrotechnics of a circus production like Hit Single.

“If you want to keep Stiles in this competition, tweet using the hashtag #StilesHS or continue to vote for him on your Hit Single app!”

Stiles follows Boyd off stage and to the green room where Lydia is waiting for them.

“We have a surprise for you,” she says, squeezing him tight.  

“No more surprises, Lyds.  I’m barely keeping it together as it is,” Stiles says, swallowing down his anxious bile.

“You’re going to want this surprise, trust me,” she says, waving goodbye to Boyd as she leads them to the dressing room.  “Just change into the outfit I picked out for your last song and take deep breaths. Everything will be revealed in time.”

“I hate when you do this,” Stiles says, but kicks off his shoes anyway.  

She flounces off in a cloud of strawberry curls and Chanel but her presence is quickly replaced by Peter knocking on the door frame.  “Need help with that?” he asks, pointing to Stiles’ thin hipster tie.

“My hands are shaking,” Stiles admits with a huff.  “Thank God I’m done playing the violin for the night.”

“You’re going to do great,” Peter says, reaching out to pull the horribly crooked knot from Stiles’ throat.  “I have complete faith.”

“How?” Stiles asks, at wit's end.  “I’m honestly curious. How? Why?  Why me? Theo just went out there with the twins like a reincarnation of three-fifths of the Beach Boys and I’m completely fucked.”

“Because you found yourself here,” Peter says, eyes on Stiles’ tie as he speaks.  “I pushed you every step of the way and you always found a way to make it work.  Every step of the way, you've surprised me.  The way you've grown?  You already won.  You’re an amazing artist, a talented musician. Everyone is going to want to sign you. The world is your oyster,” he says, waving his hand in a circle around the dressing room.

Stiles just rolls his eyes.

“And Theo just got kicked off,” Peter adds, an evil smirk crossing his lips.  “ _God Only Knows_ only brings the house down if you do it perfectly.  He tried that new cover arrangement but Theo is no John Legend and the twins were flat the whole time.  He fucked up.”

Stiles laughs, forgetting his nerves entirely.  

“This sudden death thing is kind of fantastic when you think about it,” Peter says, wagging his eyebrows.  “You get to watch your enemies disappear in the blink of an eye.”

“I love you,” Stiles says because it’s exactly what he needed to hear and Peter knew that.  Peter knows how to be exactly what he needs.

“I love you, too,” Peter replies, flattening down the collar of Stiles’ dress shirt over a perfect square thing, all the stripes neatly lined up.  “And now you have a true love knot.”

“Is that really what it’s called?” Stiles asks as Peter steps out of the way to let him examine it in the mirror.

“It’s not a knot for the faint of heart, darling.  It takes practice and precision and a certain attitude to pull it off.  It’s the knot of a champion,” Peter says, brushing non-existent lint off of his shoulders.  “Now go out there and give them hell.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Stiles says, slipping his jacket on.

“You’re very welcome, songbird.”

 

* * *

 

 “You’re up, Bilinski!  Three minutes!” Finstock yells, thrusting a microphone into his hand.  

“I thought Isaac was next.”

“The boys upstairs changed the lineup.  Isaac just ate it big time. It’s Kira and then you.”

“What?  Isaac’s gone?  What did he do?” Stiles asks, attempting to catch a glimpse of the man’s golden curls as he exits through the stage door, head hung low.

“Something raunchy,” Finstock says, holding his whistle up to his mouth.  “The audience didn’t seem to appreciate him straying from the boy next door thing he had going on.”

“Fuck, really?” Stiles asks, coming to a stop on his mark just behind the curtain.  If America turned on Isaac that fast, they could do the same to him in half the time.  He was completely screwed.

“Forget about him, it’s down to you and the ukulele princess now.  She’s just about to finish up and then you’re in,” Finstock growls, blowing into his whistle and slapping Stiles on the ass simultaneously.

Stiles stands behind the curtain and tries to take a deep breath, but his ass stings and Kira’s breathy voice echoes in his ears.  The arrangement is simple, but the piano is somehow even louder from backstage. His stomach rumbles and clenches with every stroke of the keys.  

Fuck.  Kira is nailing it.

The crowd adores her, swaying back and forth to the beat and when she goes for the key change, they scream their approval.

 

“Just as long as I'm the name

On your tattooed heart”

 

Stiles can see her in profile, perched on the lid of the piano, legs crossed under her taffeta lined skirt, lips perfectly red and shiny as she sings to the balcony.  Losing the ukulele for her final song was a fantastic choice. A winning choice.

Stiles might lose.  But more importantly, he might be sick.

 

“Wrap me in your jacket

My baby

And lay me in your bed

And kiss me, underneath the moonlight

Darling let me trace the lines on your tattooed heart”

 

It’s official.  As Kira hits the last verse, Stiles’ stomach makes a violent protest.  A stagehand directs him to a nearby trash can and he has a split second to toss his tie over his shoulder before losing his dinner.

Sweating and panting, Stiles accepts the offered bottle of water and rinses his mouth, spitting into the trash.  His head is pounding. A throbbing pressure in his ears and a stinging in his throat add to the pain and confusion.  Doing his best to tune out the rest of his senses, Stiles focuses on his breathing, taking small sips of water.

Someone is calling his name, but it sounds fuzzy.  Everything comes to him like it’s moving through molasses.  The water bottle is snatched from his hands and a microphone takes its place.  He’s pushed toward the stage as someone frantically dabs the sweat from his upper lip and forehead.  

He doesn’t even hear Allison’s introduction.  Derek is playing the intro to his song before Stiles even manages to step into the spotlight.  Sliding to his mark, Stiles just barely makes his cute, but once his eyes adjust to the light and latch on to Peter, he finds his center.

 

“You sit there in your heartache

Waiting on some beautiful boy to

To save you from your old ways

You play forgiveness

Watch it now, here he comes

He doesn't look a thing like Jesus

But he talks like a gentlemen

Like you imagined when you were young”

 

He has to get the tone exactly right, that walking, talking cadence, or the whole thing crumbles.  It’s quick and has to fall effortlessly from his lips in sync with Cora’s drums, but Stiles knows he can do it.  He has the true love knot around his neck, nestled up to his throat like an embrace, a talisman of Peter’s affection.  He can do this. Three minutes and forty seconds more and this entire competition will be out of his hands.

 

“Can we climb this mountain

I don't know

Higher now than ever before

I know we can make it if we take it slow

Let's take it easy

Easy now, watch it go

We're burning down the highway skyline

On the back of a hurricane that started turning

When you were young

When you were young”

 

Peter is in his seat like a king on a throne, nodding his approval to his subjects.  There’s a small twist of a smile on his face, his crystal blue eyes still visible from a distance.  Even as Stiles plays to the crowd, reaching out and grabbing the hands of the nearest fans, his eyes are locked on Peter.  

Every word is for him.

 

“And sometimes you close your eyes

And see the place where you used to live

When you were young”

 

Derek gives the bridge everything he has, screeching down the neck of his guitar.  Cora’s ponytail is flying wildly behind her like she’s been swept up in a tornado. And then it goes quiet, just Jennifer on the piano laying the scene, slowing it down just so Stiles can bring it back up again.

 

“They say the devil's water, it ain't so sweet

You don't have to drink right now

But you can dip your feet

Every once in a little while”

 

He pulls his eyes away from Peter’s gaze to spin around, nodding at Braeden who starts the bass line back up again and then to Cora who has her eyes closed but feels her cue.  By the time the whole band is back in, along with a small contingent of backup singers, Stiles is hopping up and down, ready to rock, his nausea all but a forgotten memory.

 

“You sit there in your heartache

Waiting on some beautiful boy to

To save you from your old ways

You play forgiveness

Watch it now, here he comes”

 

Stiles strolls across the stage, thinking about sliding on his knees, but then deciding it’d be too cheap.  He struts instead, making the suit and shoes Lydia picked out for him work. When he gets to the end of the space he turns to the left, ready to run back to center when he catches sight of a familiar face.  

Sheriff John Stilinski is in the crowd, and he’s crying the manly tears of a professional law enforcement officer.  He looks... okay—wan but healthy, standing on his own two feet between Scott and Melissa. Of course, they would do it like this.  Lydia knew he would cry and the producers needed to up the drama for the finale.

He hates it when she’s right.

Choking back a sob, Stiles turns away.  He needs to focus if he’s going to get through the song without losing it.  

 

“He doesn't look a thing like Jesus

But he talks like a gentlemen

Like you imagined when you were young

When you were young”

 

Heading back to center stage, Stiles looks directly into camera two and sends it home.

 

“I said he doesn't look a thing like Jesus

He doesn't look a thing like Jesus”

 

The crowd is going insane and Stiles can barely breathe.  His voice cracks, tears escaping his eyes as he turns straight ahead, locking eyes with Peter for the final line.  

 

“But more than you'll ever know”

 

His throat burns and his head pounds but he can let go now.  He finished. He made it.

Stiles doesn’t even bother directing the ending, pulling his arms and kicking his legs like he usually would.  Derek has it more than covered and he can’t stop looking at Peter while he cries tears of joy and exhaustion.

Fuck Lydia, this is so embarrassing.

“Stiles Stilinski, everyone!” Allison calls, stepping on stage.  “Would you like to tell us what has you so emotional, Stiles?” she asks the redundant question, following the script.

“I didn’t—” he tries, but it’s harder than he thought.  Stiles hates it, but their perfectly orchestrated breakdown is actually legitimate.  He hasn’t seen his father in months, has been relying on Skype sessions and phone calls all the while never getting to touch him and get that physical reassurance that he’s still okay, still breathing.  “I didn’t know my dad would be here.”

“Let’s bring him up on stage,” Allison says amid cheers.  “Mr. Stilinski?”

“Sheriff Stilinski,” John corrects as he’s led up the stairs with Melissa supporting, still too proud to use a cane even after five surgeries.  “I haven’t officially retired yet.”

“You’re retired,” Stiles says, breaking down in sobs as he throws himself into his father’s arms.  “You’re so fucking retired, don’t even try,” he blubbers.

The crowd awws and cheers, whistling so loud Allison can barely get a word in.  “Is there anything you’d like to say to your son, Sheriff?” she finally manages over the noise.

“Your mother would have been so proud of you,” he says loudly, wiping his eyes.  “I love you, kid.”

It’s disgustingly sappy.  So syrupy sweet it would give Stiles a toothache if he’d seen it happen on TV.  But in person, right here right now, with his father in front of him? It’s more than okay.  It’s wonderful.

”Fuck, I love you so much,” he mutters, wondering if he’s said it loud enough to need bleeping.  

“You’ve got this.  I know you do,” John says, patting him on the back a few more times and giving him one more long squeeze before releasing him.

“With just Kira and Stiles left, the votes are neck and neck.  The polls are open for three more minutes and then we’ll announce our winner, so make sure you vote for your favorite right now!” Allison says, staring into camera 4, dimples flashing.

“Are we actually going to keep doing this?” Erica shouts, drawing all eyes to her.  “You all know this is rigged, don’t you America?” she screeches, climbing up onto her giant chair to stand on the seat.  

“Not now!” Allison hisses.  “There’s only a few minutes left!  Can’t you wait?”

“Oh, I think it’s going to be now,” Erica says, squaring her shoulders forward, mini skirt riding up her thighs.  The entire front row is probably getting an eyeful.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, go to commercial!” Allison mutters, hoping someone will save her.

“Boyd is the best singer here and you all know it,” Erica says, ignoring her.  “He got railroaded by the producers and now you’re all fawning over Stiles and Kira like they’re the best thing since oral sex, which, I think no one but Peter has any right to pass judgment on.”

“And Derek,” Peter says, smiling like the cat that caught the canary.  “He’s the one sleeping with Kira.”

“What?” Stiles yelps, turning behind him to look at Derek.  “Is that true?”

“I think that’s my cue to leave,” John says, letting Melissa lead him back to his seat.  

“It’s just sex,” Derek says easily, shrugging like it’s no big deal discussing his private life on national television.  

“Just sex?” Kira’s voice calls from behind a nearby curtain.  “We’re dating, you emotionally-stunted meathead,” she screams, stomping on stage in her cherry patterned sweetheart dress and red lipstick, victory curls still stiff on her head with what must be a gallon of hairspray.  “I said I loved you!”

“That’s true,” Chris Argent cuts in.  “I heard that backstage last week. It was very sweet, Kira.”

“Thank you?” she says sarcastically, hands upturned, shrugging in frustration.

“She may love the lone wolf, but my champion dabbled with another Hale,” Morrell says blandly.

All eyes fall on Peter.

“Never,” Peter says simply, shaking his head.  “Only you, songbird.”

Stiles believes him.  It’s a ludicrous accusation, now that he thinks about it.  Peter really hasn’t looked at anyone else since they met, not even a passing glance.  There’s no way he’s taken the time to sleep with someone else.

“Who were you fucking then?” Derek asks, unplugging his guitar so he can walk forward and confront Kira.  

“Cora,” Morrell says dully.  She’s bored, just waiting for everyone else’s stagnant minds to catch up.

“What?” Erica screams.  “Since when?”

She doesn’t get an answer, instead, Peter cuts in.  “I thought we made a deal, Cora!” he shouts over Derek’s head toward the drum set.  “No more stealing Derek’s girlfriends. Not after that fiasco with Braeden.”

“I never agreed to that!” she shouts back.  

“It was a gentleman’s agreement, Cora, dear!”

“I’m not a gentleman!”

“Were you singing that song for her or for me, K?” Derek asks Kira, distraught, eyebrows scrunching up on his forehead.

“Is there anyone here who’s not sleeping with someone?” Stiles asks, looking between the motley crew of characters in front of him.  “Don’t even try, Erica,” he says as soon as she opens her mouth. “We know you’ve been with Boyd this whole time. _Isn’t She Lovely_?  Really?  If anyone’s to blame for him getting kicked off the show, it’s you.”

“I resent that.  Stevie Wonder should have been a home run for him,” Erica says, flopping back down to her seat.  “But you’re not wrong. We’ve been screwing for a while now. He really is fantastic. Truly mind-blowing stuff.”

“Thanks, baby!” Boyd’s voice screams from somewhere in the audience.

“It wasn’t just me, though,” Erica says when the crowd starts booing, outraged at her role in Boyd’s downfall.  “Argent has been shacked up with baby face Isaac for weeks.”

“I knew it!” Stiles crows.  “He was way too cool with us being together,” he says, pointing to Chris.

“Really, Christopher?” Peter says, tutting at him.  “Has your divorce even been finalized yet? For shame.”

“Not again,” Allison cries, hand clutching her microphone so tight it might break.  “Daddy?”

“I’m just his sponsor, sweetie.  Nothing more,” Chris pleads with her.  “Your mother and I will be fine, I promise.”

“His sponsor?  More like his donor, am I right?” Erica cackles.

“Divorcing the same woman twice, Christopher?  That’s just low. Remind me to never marry you again.”

Stiles looks out to the crowd and finds Scott, who is smiling so brightly it radiates like a light bulb.  He’s loving every second of this. Melissa is practically vibrating with excitement at his side, soaking it all in like a sponge.  His father has his head in his hands but Lydia is nodding, lips pursed like this is exactly what she had planned all along.

“I’m moving out,” Allison says quickly.  “Scott and I are going to get an apartment.”

“Who’s Scott?” Chris asks, incredulous.  

“Stiles’ brother.”

“What?”

“What?”

“She knows her own heart, cow man,” Morrell says sharply.  “Stand down.”

It’s like a ping-pong match Stiles can’t look away from.  He just bursts out laughing, Peter joining him as the audience shrieks in glee.  

“You’ll like him, Daddy.  He’s sweet.”

“Kira, honey.  Want to get out of here?” Cora asks.

“She’s with me.”

“Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?” Chris says, ignoring them.

“Just tell me Jackson isn’t getting laid, at least,” Stiles says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

“He’s the one Lydia’s dating,” Peter laughs, smacking his thigh like a donkey.

“Fuck, really Lyds?” Stiles says to the room at large, still laughing and now gasping with the hilarity of it all.  “The abs get her every time.”

“They’re engaged,” Peter crows, clutching his stomach now.  “He just told me backstage.”

“It’s been like two months!  What the fuck?” Stiles laughs even harder.  

Lydia was the one who came up with the sabotage for Jackson.  She set him up and let him run right into her consoling bosom.  It’s textbook manipulation and Stiles has no trouble believing Jackson’s been playing mind games as well.  She would never stand for that kind of behavior.  He’s been riling her up, playing the asshole. It’s got to be some weird sex thing.  The two of them are made for each other.

“Like that matters, darling.  I knew the minute I heard your voice that you were the one for me.  My beautiful little songbird. We’re going to make such lovely music together,” Peter says, fondly, a serene smile on his face.

“I love you,” Stiles says, heedless of the arguments happening on all sides.  “You’re ridiculous and this show is absolutely insane, but I love you.”

“I love you too, beautiful,” Peter says, grinning as he makes to stand and cross the stage to embrace Stiles.

“Stop it!  Everyone clear out!” Finstock screams, stomping onto the stage, shooing Peter back to his chair.  “Hale, off the fucking stage. It’s time for the reveal.”

“I’m not going to stand around and watch her win,” Derek says, pointing an agitated thumb in Kira’s direction.

“I’ve got you, honey,” Cora says, flipping her amber hair over her shoulder and curling an arm around Kira’s waist.

“Off the fucking stage!  I need baby Argent, not baby Hale!  We’re back from commercial in five,” he screams, running off the stage.  “Four! Three! Two!”

“And we’re just moments away from announcing this year’s winner!” Allison says quickly, smiling at the cameras.  “The voting window is closed and the tweets have been tallied.”

The lights dim, and a sound effect plays and Stiles has no idea what’s happening but he’s left on stage next to Kira, so he should probably hold her hand.  That’s what people usually do in these situations, right?

He clutches her arm, mind reeling.  They share a few awkward smiles but they only make Stiles feel like he has to vomit again, so he quickly ducks his head, waiting for the executioner’s blade to grace his nape.

It’s a fucking eternity.

The crowd is screaming, chanting his name, and when the lights finally come back up, Allison is happy to announce, “Let’s hear it for Stiles Stilinski, your 2018 Hit Single!”

The theatre explodes with noise and motion.  Sparks fly from some pyrotechnic display at the back of the stage and glitter rains down from the ceiling amidst giant red balloons.  The Hit Single theme music begins to play and the remaining members of the band give him a standing ovation.

Within seconds there’s a trophy thrust into his hands and when he looks up, Allison is crying, clear little tracks cutting through her blushed cheeks.  Cora escorts a tearful Kira off the stage and then it’s all eyes on him.

Scott, Melissa, Lydia, and his father all rush up to him, trading kisses and tight hugs with one another, heedless of the Sheriff’s still-healing injuries.  

“I could learn to like him,” John says, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder hard under his calloused hand.  

“What?” Stiles shouts over the din.  

“If this is how you are when you’re with him.  If this is how happy you are… how driven,” he says, leaning closer to speak into Stiles’ ear.  “I could learn to like him.”

“Thanks, pops,” Stiles says, wiping the tears from his face when they part.  “I’m going to go kiss him now.”

“You smell like death but okay,” John says, nodding in acceptance and understanding.  “You do that.”

Stiles gets one more pat on the shoulder before he is turning toward the front of the stage.  Peter is standing there, smiling so hard he’s laughing, just waiting, giving Stiles time with his family.  

“I did it!” Stiles screams, holding out his arms.  

In seconds, Peter is hurrying toward him, bending his knees and lifting him off the ground in a sweeping circle.  

“You’re rich!” Peter shouts, laughing as his red soles slip and slide on the stage in tiny steps as he spins them around and around.

“I’m not rich, Peter,” Stiles says, spitting confetti out of his mouth as soon as he’s back on the ground.  “I need the whole $500,000 to pay off bills and loans. I’m not homeless is more accurate.”

“No, darling,” Peter says, kissing him soundly before speaking again.  “You’re a millionaire!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?  The prize is $500,000 and a contract with Millenia records.”

“Fuck the record contract, sweetheart.  The boys at Millenia are a bunch of swindlers.  You don’t need them.”

“I need the money, Peter.  I don’t care if they want me to put on a clown costume and dance the Macarena.  I’m doing it.”

“I bet on you to win!” Peter shouts over the noise.  

“What?”

“I bet on you to win!” Peter repeats, a maniacal grin on his face.  “The executive staff and coaches always have a private betting pool and I bet on you to win and you won!”

“How much, Peter?” Stiles screams, but Peter doesn’t seem to hear him.

“You won!  I knew you would!  Get your friends and your family together, we’re celebrating!  Well, first we’ll get you cleaned up and brush your teeth, _then_ we can get to Elton’s.  He said he’d throw a party in your honor.”

“How much, Peter!?” Stiles repeats, patting Peter’s chest with his palm in his excitement.

“Ten million,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly, but with a telling twist of the lips.

“Are you serious?”

“Christopher didn’t even think you were going to make it to the finale!  He already paid me five. I put it in an account for you.”

“You what?  Peter!”

“I knew you could do it, darling.  You earned that money! It’s all yours.  No strings, no obligations. I promise you.”

“You’re serious.”

“I was hoping you might want to write an album with me, but if you don’t, the money is still yours.  For your father, your brother, his mom, whatever they need. Whatever _you_ need.”

“I need you,” Stiles says.  It’s cheesy, absurdly so, but in the moment, it’s the only thing Stiles can think to say.  “I just need you.”

He can’t keep the smile off his face even though he’s never been more serious in his life.  It’s ridiculous. The confetti, the throbbing music, the bouncing balloons, the screaming crowd—it’s a moment big that’s too big for only two people to share.  That’s why things like this only happen on television.

They’re larger than life.

But as Stiles wraps his arms around Peter’s hips and pulls him close, the largess melts into the background, leaving only the two of them and their muttered endearments.

“I was hoping you’d say that, songbird,” Peter says, cupping his face and leaning in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I didn't write any of this music. Special thanks to the original artists and composers for inspiring me. Their amazing music can be found on the playlists listed at the top of the fic. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to check out the rest of the amazing art and stories for the 14k Steter Reverse Bang on [tumblr](https://steterreversebang.tumblr.com/) or in the collection here on AO3!


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